Doors Opening
by cuppacuppajoe
Summary: Logan ponders his future with Rory. Will he stay or leave for London? What would it mean for Rory and Logan if he decides either way? Set in the evening of Partings and after.
1. Last Night

PROLOGUE

"Damn it!" Logan Huntzberger cursed under his breath. "Damn it to hell!" He slams his fist against the walls of the elevator, as he fought back the tears that burned his throat. Rory's melancholic blue eyes, her hesitant hand waving goodbye, were images he couldn't erase from his mind. He felt spineless, helpless.

He punches the red emergency stop button.

Emergency stop.

He needed to breathe.

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1. Last Night

Colin and Finn staggered into the elevator with last threats of impromptu crashes in Logan's London flat, "British birds beware!", and a final "To the Queen!", empty fists raised in salute to a now sleepy Rory.

"I thought we'd have to bring out our Batman and Robin spare pajamas," Rory half-smiled, shaking her head as Logan steered her back into their apartment. She had grown fond of Colin and Finn, and the thought of seeing less of them with Logan away gave her cause for more sadness.

Once inside, Logan started picking up empty paper cups and beer bottles, décor fallen from walls, assorted masks of Thatcher and Blair, Union Jack flags, all remnants of a farewell party that–by the looks of their apartment–had been a blast, but had also seemingly passed him by.

Rory watched him, his body restless even as he had to hobble with a cane. She knew by now that when Logan had a lot on his mind, he had to do something. Take a walk. Fly a plane. Right now, he looked like he would jump off a cliff if they were on one.

So she intercepted him on his way to the kitchen, removing the things he held in his hands and putting them on the counter. "Hey," she gently said, "I'll take care of that tomorrow. Let's get you to bed because you have a long day tomorrow."

Tomorrow. The word hung heavily over them. Tomorrow he is leaving.

"Ace." Looking a little desperate, Logan took hold of Rory's face and kissed her. Deep and longing, their mouths opening for each other, breathing into each other. Slowly they walked back to their bed, still in each other's kiss. They broke apart long enough for Rory to remove her blonde wig and shake her brown tresses loose. They lay down as Logan buried his face in her hair.

Knowing that this would be their last time in a while, Logan and Rory took an eternity to make love. Blouse, shirt, pants, skirt were swept aside and bare skin discovered as if for the first time. Sober at the party, Logan felt drunk at the sight and smell and taste of Rory. He kissed, nipped, sucked at her neck and shoulders, before finally dipping down to her breasts. Rory's fingers twined through his hair, her legs tangled with his, as he took his time doing what he knew she loved, sucking and laving her breasts with his tongue. His hand, meanwhile, grazed her legs, still clad in her thigh-high stockings, to caress her center now hot and moist with his ministrations.

Rory was spiraling out of her senses, her hands caressing Logan's hard chest and back, kissing his hair and whispering words of love. Logan's head started moving lower, and her back arched in anticipation of what she knew was coming. Shy in the beginning, she now welcomed his mouth on her and his hands at her buttocks, and Logan reveled in the intimacy that she so willingly shared with him. Her hands still in his hair, guiding him, Rory's nerve endings tingled and sparked as she felt Logan's tongue stroking her. She felt consumed by flames. Logan began to feel Rory tighten and buck under his mouth and knew she was coming soon. He reached up to caress her breasts, and Rory started to moan and pant at the double assault.

"Please, Logan," she moaned, wanting him inside her. "Please, love," tugging at his hair, trying to get him to move up and into her. But Logan wouldn't, couldn't stop, he needed to give her this, to make his sensible Rory utterly and completely senseless and out of control for him. And indeed she was. She bucked, and moaned, and cried out his name, until she became boneless in his arms.

He stared at Rory, now gathered in his embrace, her hair spread out and eyes closed, body flushed, chest rising and falling rapidly as she caught her breath. All his anger and frustration at his father and his future couldn't measure up to the desperate desire he felt to stay with her here, right at this moment. He needed her. That he can feel so vulnerable was such a surprise.

He could hardly believe that Rory stayed with him through his recuperation from his fall. That was when he realized the lengths she would go through for him, wading through her hurt, because she loved him. No one else has. Because he was and can be such an ass, he knew. He sometimes still wondered if she had totally forgiven him. Perhaps not, but he knew he would spend the rest of his life making himself worthy of her love. He was like a boat that had lost its moorings, Rory the anchor that held onto him and kept him afloat and from becoming totally lost to sea. He smiled inwardly at his use of the boat as metaphor, seeing that it figured prominently in many a mishap in his reckless pre-Rory life. How can he be without her?

Rory looked up at Logan, who was now staring into space, brown eyes deep the color of chocolate, his hands distractedly pulling at her hair. He hadn't spoken since the party ended and Colin and Finn bade their drunken goodbyes. She dare not ask what he was thinking. If he asks her again to tell him not to go, she would answer without hesitation, "Don't go." Yet she knew–they both knew–that he had to. So she didn't ask him what he was thinking.

Instead, she simply wanted to love him the same way he did her. "My turn," she said softly, turning to him and kissing him. Logan's arms automatically went around her as she moved on top of him, both gasping at the sensation of Rory's breasts on his chest, her heat against his pelvis, her stockinged legs moving across his bare ones. She moved herself in agonizing slowness against him, pressing herself into him, caressing the length of his torso with her face, until she took him in inside her mouth. Now it was Logan's hands tangled in her hair, now it was him who was mindless and hushed as her practiced mouth and tongue moved on him. She felt herself heating up again as he groaned in pleasure; he taught her well.

Logan insistently pulled her up and they kissed frantically, as Rory straddled him and he finally entered her. Breathing into each other, Rory moved in cadence to Logan's thrusts, his hands at her hips, her hands locked around his neck. Until they both came to oblivion, where nothing and no one existed but themselves, and where their breaths were the only sounds.

They fell asleep without further conversation, enveloped in each other's arms and unspoken emotions. Neither wanted to disturb the moment that seemed to protect them so tenuously against the inevitable tomorrow. Neither knew if they should say what they both wanted to say.

_Just tell me not to go._

_Don't go._


	2. Thinking Inside The Box

2. Thinking Inside the Box

He punches the red emergency stop button.

Emergency stop.

He needed to breathe.

The elevator shuddered to a halt. Logan slid down against the wall and leaned his forehead against his cane. Stuck in between floors, neither going up nor down. _Which is pretty much how my life boils down, _he thought to himself. He didn't have a clue where he was headed.

His instincts were telling him to run, run back to Rory, run away from Mitchum, and his mother, grandfather, the "Huntzberger destiny". Funny, but he never thought of himself as a runner; he embraced life and all its uncertainties and risks–he even sought them out…didn't he? _Sure you did, _he answered himself, when it came to sinking yachts, blowing off school, indulging in girls and booze, jumping cliffs and scaffolds and other stupid LDB stunts.

But hell, those things meant nothing. Truth is, when it came to his life, he never had to run towards or away from anything; he never had to decide for himself. It was all pre-ordained, taken care of. Yale. Becoming a journalist. Taking over the Huntzberger newspaper empire. Becoming like his father. Going to London. Did he want these things? He was never asked. And he never asked himself, never thought about it. Because he never felt he had any choice in the matter. _It's only my life after all, _he thought with bitterness. So he sought small comfort in the buzz and blurr of his frenzied life, relishing what little freedoms he had before his pre-ordained life kicked in.

He cursed again as he gingerly stood up, leaning his weight against his good leg. _Then ask yourself now! What do you want, damn it! _He was starting to feel claustrophobic.

"_No one's stopping you from making whatever you want happen. Go into journalism. Go into politics. Be a doctor. Be a clown. Do whatever you want."_

"_It's not as easy when it's not handed to you."_

"_Really? It's all so easy for me? I don't want that life. It's forced on me. You talk about all these doors being open? All I see is one door, and I'm being pushed through it. I have no choice. You try living without options."_

"_How hard are you fighting it?"_

He never answered Rory's question, that night they fought at the Rich Man's Shoe. He hated being pushed by his father towards a life he wasn't sure he wanted. But how hard is he fighting it? And did he want to? He shook his head, ruefully running his hand through his hair. _I don't know, _he realized.

He did know one thing though: Rory. When he knew what he wanted, he pursued it with single-mindedness. In a split-second, he knew he wanted a relationship with her when she told him she couldn't do stringless anymore, that she wanted to go back to being just friends. In a heartbeat, he knew he loved her and would do anything to win her back, one lonely December evening (unfortunately, with another girl, he recalled with regret). He allowed his mind to wander a bit, wondering if Rory went back to sleep or was drinking her morning coffee. Probably drinking coffee and on the phone already with Lorelei, he mused.

He missed her already; he needed her. But he also knew that wasn't enough. He couldn't just run back to Rory, just as he couldn't just run away from his family.

Stuck in an elevator, going neither here nor there.

Unexpectedly, the doors opened and George, the doorman of the building, surveyed with some alarm the young Huntzberger muttering to himself and bumping his head against the wall.

"Er, everything alright, sir? I was notified that the elevator had unexpectedly stopped…"

George, unbeknownst to Mr. Huntzberger, was privy to many clandestine incidents occurring in mysteriously stopped elevators, not a few involving Mr. Huntzberger and the charming Ms. Gilmore herself. There were security cameras, though he doubted Mr. Huntzberger cared. George felt himself blushing at the memory of Ms. Gilmore waving an innocent "Cheerio!" at him as she and Mr. Huntzberger stepped out of the elevator last Thursday afternoon, fresh from one such clandestine episode.

"Is everything in order," George discreetly repeated his question.

"Oh. Right. Sorry," Logan said with some confusion, waving his hand vaguely in the air. But he made no move to go in or out of the elevator.

They were at an awkward impasse. Mr. Huntzberger seemed preoccupied and..._lost. _George entered the elevator and took it upon himself to inquire, "Going up or down, sir?"

A heartbeat.

"Going down."

"Very good, sir." He pressed 'G', and the elevator doors closed with a hush.


	3. Mothers and Fathers

3. Mothers and Fathers

Rory turned on her bare heel and walked–drifted–back to the apartment. She felt drained, though tears continued to spill heedlessly from her eyes. She sat on the couch and automatically reached out to grab a coffee mug on the table, emptying it. She grimaced, realizing that she drank the cold dregs of coffee left over from the previous night. Automatically, she picked up the phone and punched the auto-dial to her mother's cellphone. She was running on auto-pilot.

"Rory?"

"Mom…?" She barely choked out the word, and that was all she could do. "How lame is, 'say hi to William and Harry for meeeeh…'?" She began sobbing again in earnest.

"Oh, hun."

Lorelei kept silent as her daughter cried at the other end, inwardly thanking the gods for the time given her to collect herself. She wished she didn't have to talk to anyone at all. Not now. Or ever, she thought with regret, looking at the unfamiliar green of the bathroom tiles, the unfamiliar face in the mirror. Chris's mirror. _Just 10 minutes, _she steeled herself. Ten minutes to be the mother of my heartbroken daughter.

"So I guess a serious wallow is in order. Shall I have Ben and Jerry ship 20 pints of their strongest stuff to your address?" Lorelei said gently, after Rory calmed herself.

"It's not a break-up, Mom. Though a wallow would be good, actually. At least I know I'd feel better. But this…this I don't know how to deal with. It seems so illogical," Rory continued, as fresh tears erupted, "He's not even going half-way around the world, not like he'll be in Afghanistan or Timbuktu. It's just London, London! Six hours away. Less on the Concorde. It's not like I couldn't live without him… Paris would be ashamed of me if she saw me like this. God, I've got to get a grip."

"Rory, Rory, take a breath daughter of mine! Give yourself a break. You have every reason to feel sad about this. Logan going to London for a year is no small thing. This is the stuff of epic love stories. Pop in _An Affair To Remember _and I'll be there in a jiff to pass the Kleenex." She needed a serious wallow herself, Lorelei thought inwardly. An escape.

"Gee thanks, Mom. I feel better already."

"Seriously, kid. You're crossing a threshold here, both of you. A lot of things _are_ going to change. You are mourning the passing of a chapter in your lives. And you have every right to mourn."

"I guess I am. 'Cause it's been happy Mom, you know? Living together like this, being able to take care of him after his accident. We felt so…cocooned. But its passed us by, it's been too short... everything happened so fast since we got back together, and now..."

"Are you a bit worried about, you know, this being a long-distance relationship...?" Lorelei's voice drifted off as she and Rory silently recalled the bridesmaids debacle.

"That's the least of it Mom. We can weather the distance. I'm not too worried about that," Rory replied.

"Logan probably has a private jet stashed away somewhere exclusively for stow-away romantic reunions across the Atlantic, huh," Lorelei smiled. She never missed a chance to rib Rory about her boyfriend's astounding wealth.

Rory thought for a minute about where her distress was coming from. "I think I might be a little less sad if I knew that Logan really wanted to do this. Last night…Mom, he was so miserable," Rory revealed. "My heart was breaking for him, and I felt so helpless."

"Of course he's miserable. He's leaving you. And going off to do Papa's bidding. Now I don't know much about their relationship, but that one time I saw him with Mitchum was the coldest I ever felt in the middle of winter at Martha's Vineyard," Lorelei recalled. "Having to work for Mitchum, being groomed as a 23 year-old media mogul…that's pretty heavy stuff. I'd jump off a cliff myself if I had to do that."

"He asked me, Mom," Rory continued. "He asked me to tell him not to go. And I didn't tell him not to go. And now I don't know if I should have. In my heart I don't want him to go. But I also feel that he should, for his own sake. I don't know…this morning he seemed set."

Rory recalled with an ache in her chest how _he_ calmed her before he left, how he assured her that she can still live in their apartment, how he kissed her and said _I love you, Ace._

"But maybe I let Logan down," Rory said quietly, confused.

"Rory, no. It's not up to you to decide that for him," Lorelei said gently. "And he probably knows that, too. Whether he goes to London or not is his decision Rory. Don't burden yourself with it, okay? You are the best thing that has happened to him, the reason he feels he _can_ go to London, if that makes any sense," she reasoned.

"Okay. Maybe. Thanks Mom." Rory took a few deep breaths and rubbed her eyes. "Uh, I think I need to clean up here. Take a shower. I'm all cried out. It would do me good."

"You do that, hun. Call me whenever, okay? The Ben and Jerry offer always stands," Lorelei said, sending a mental hug to Rory, her 21-year-old woman-child.

"Bye Mom." Rory set the phone down, and went to the bathroom to take a shower and wash out her eyes. Though he was the last thing she wanted to be thinking of now, the mention of Mitchum brought back memories of her one-sided conversation with him in that New York hospital.

_And I'm figuring a guy like you, surrounded by nothing but a bunch of terrified sycophants, might not have someone in his life with the guts to tell him what an incredibly selfish, narcissistic ass he's being, so I thought I'd jump on in. Swallow your pride, get in your car, and come down here and see your son, now!_

Was she scared of Mitchum? She didn't know. She did feel like throwing up whenever she saw him. In her entire life, no one ever made her feel so low, like her dreams were worthless, that she was just the "little girlfriend". But she felt different–strong–that time she called Mitchum. Because it wasn't about her, it was about Logan.

She saw Mitchum then for the first time as Logan's father. At Logan's bedside, she watched him sleep as she thought about what his life must have been like, raised by parents who thought a day at the spa and a cold shoulder were the appropriate responses to their son's near-death experience. Rory saw through Logan's carefully disguised disappointment each day that passed that Shira and Mitchum did not come to see him. _And the iron entered her soul,_ she recalled.

Rory did agree with Mitchum on one thing though: Logan was talented, and he needed to get on a path.

And Rory agreed with Lorelei: Logan's path is up to him to decide, not her, nor Mitchum. Did Mitchum not realize that? Can he not see how unhappy Logan is? Doesn't he care?

Fueled by her sadness at Logan's departure and her anger at Mitchum, Rory threw on her clothes and left the apartment. She strode purposefully towards the elevator and punched the button. _This is good, _she thought. Going out. Doing something. Better than moping around the apartment, thinking of Logan.

As she waited, she settled down long enough to realize that what she was about to do probably wouldn't change anything now. That Mitchum would probably think her naïve. But heck, she would do it anyway. For the principle of the thing, so to speak. For Logan.

She pressed the elevator button repeatedly, frustrated that it was taking so long to get up to her floor. Was it stuck somewhere?

She lifted the phone beside the elevator and connected to the doorman. "Hello, George?"


	4. Flight Delays and Detours

4. Flight Delays and Detours

Logan drummed his fingers impatiently against his cane, feeling restless and jumpy at what he was about to do. His hand automatically reached out for the bottle of scotch in the mini-bar, but caught himself, remembering that he had to be at his most sober and clear-minded. His eyes scanned the Connecticut scenery flitting by his window, not really seeing it, his mind's eye focused on Rory's face as she waved goodbye to him from their apartment door. _A separation would cause them both so much heartache, _he thought. _The least he can be is certain for both of them that this is what he needed–nay, wanted–to do._

Frank was just opening the partition to the passenger side to inform Logan that they have arrived, but Logan had already opened the door before the limo had come to a complete stop.

"Shall I remove your bags from the trunk, Mr. Huntzberger?" Frank asked with hesitation, knowing that this was not supposed to be their destination.

"Leave them there, Frank, thanks. And wait for me. I won't be long," Logan replied distractedly.

He hobbled up the long driveway, up to the imposing entrance, and was greeted by the maid before he had a chance to ring the bell. _He knows I'm already here, _Logan thought. Despite many a heated confrontation with his father, he felt nervous for the first time about facing Mitchum.

"Logan!" the voice boomed from the den, unmistakably powerful and angry. "The pilot called me, you missed your scheduled flight. What the hell is going on? These stunts of yours have gone on long enough!" Mitchum was red in face, clearly exasperated at him.

"Hey dad," Logan responded, his calm the polar opposite to Mitchum's tirade. "I was wondering if I could talk to you…"

"Talk to me?" Mitchum demanded. "What on earth would you want to talk to me about on the hour you are supposed to be meeting our people at _The London Herald_?"

"About London. About my life," Logan shrugged, realizing how belated it all sounded. "Just please hear me out."

Mitchum heaved a deep sigh, clearly expressing that he thought this was all a waste of time. He sat behind his desk, motioning for Logan to take a seat in front of him. "Fine. Whatever." _Don't think you can change my mind about London, _he thought to himself.

As he stood in front of Mitchum, Logan brought to mind Rory's voice as she rattled off the information she had learned about his father off the Internet.

_...He was born in 1953, Episcopalian, second of four children, oldest boy, Yale undergrad, star of the track team. No grad school. Then he had a couple of lost years. Kind of a blank period, a little Jesus thing going on there. Worked as a reporter and editor for two of the Huntzberger papers before taking over as CEO of the company…_

He learned more about Mitchum from Rory than from his own life, he mused inwardly, and thanked her silently.

"Thank you." A pause. Then, "What did you do between Yale and working for Grandpa?" Logan asked.

Mitchum was clearly taken aback by the unexpected question, and for once had no ready retort to Logan. Logan mentally wrote a "1" in the air, a point for the surprise that he sprang on his father. He rarely got to surprise his dad anymore.

"What the hell? Why are you asking me this?" Mitchum hedged. "Is this is some poor excuse of a delaying tactic?"

"Why can't you just answer me, dad? A simple question. I need to know what you did after Yale. There's so much we don't know about each other, and really, I no longer care at this point. But you tell me why you didn't go to work for our papers immediately after college," Logan pushed on, seeking his leverage.

"Fine," Mitchum snapped, then leaned back in his chair as if to contemplate. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then decided against it. He shifted in his chair. After some moments, he stood up, and started to pace from his desk to his book shelves. All the while, Logan remained rooted at his spot, quite amazed at the rare opportunity to see his father so clearly flustered and out of sorts.

"I know why you're doing this, Logan," Mitchum finally said. "But I will tell you." He looked Logan squarely in the eye, but kept his distance. "I took time off after Yale. I travelled. Mostly around Europe," he said vaguely. "I don't regret anything," he adds somewhat defensively.

"Two years. That's a long time travelling. Or should I say 'wasting time', as you often refer to how I spend mine?" Logan said, not resisting the urge to give a biting response.

"Don't turn this around, Logan. This is not about me or how I chose to spend my life. This is about you," Mitchum shot back.

"Damn straight it's about me, dad, ME!" Logan expressed passionately. "Tell me you wanted to work for Grandpa right away after graduation, tell me you knew right away that you wanted to be a journalist. Tell me you never resisted this so-called Huntzberger destiny you keep throwing at my face. Tell me you weren't like me, dad!"

"You _are_ like me, Logan!" Mitchum retorted. "Don't you see? I am doing to you what Elias had done with me. For better or for worse, he straightened me out…I just don't want you to make the same mistakes I made."

"What mistakes? You just said you didn't regret anything," Logan asked.

"The mistake of wasting time," he replied, throwing out the very words that Logan hated. "I spent those two years searching Logan, looking for something…I didn't know what. I was a drunken bum most of the time, waking up in strange places that I didn't know how I got to. I finally had to eke out a living in order not to starve. I ended up writing and submitting stories to various small newspapers in London, Paris. Wherever I found myself. It was hard. And you know what?" Mitchum said with a grimace, shaking his head. "My father was right. He was right all along. He cut me off, telling me I would come running back to him and wanting to be a journalist. That is exactly what happened. I realized I wanted to write, and write for his newspapers."

Logan quietly digested Mitchum's revelation, as his father continued. "So now do you know why I want you to go to London? You are my son, Logan. I know what you are capable of if you just put your mind to it. I don't want to see you acting like a child anymore, hurting yourself just to get back at me. I know what's best for you."

"Ah, father knows best. How trite," Logan shook his head. "I want those two years, dad. In a manner of speaking."

"Is that what you really want? To spend years aimlessly trifling away your future? To jump off cliffs and continue on your drunken sprees with Colin and Finn?" Mitchum challenged.

"What I want? I don't know what I want! I don't know dad, and that is the whole point!" Logan shouted. "I don't want Colin or Finn or the LDB," Logan explained, moving forward and placing his hands on his father's desk to lean towards him. "I want time," he said more quietly.

"Time," Mitchum repeated.

"Time. Time to figure out my life for myself. Maybe I want to write, maybe I don't. Maybe I want to work for you, or not. Maybe I want to do something else. I want to find out."

Mitchum remained quiet, steepling his fingers together.

"Look," Logan began again, running his hand through his hair, "I never expected you to agree. So cut me off. Shout, scream, get angry. _But I will not go to London, dad. _At least not now, not yet, I don't know. And I think I will be of poor use to you should you force me to go. I just don't know if I can do this, and I'm just gonna end up making a fool of myself, or you, or our paper in London."

"Cut you off?" Mitchum laughed briefly. "Then what would you do? You must give me more than this, Logan. What is the deal? The compromise?"

"My life is not something to be negotiated. Stop treating me like an asset or investment. Dad. _Why can't I ever be just your son?_" To his chagrin, Logan found his voice cracking and his eyes tearing up. He looked away.

Looking at the profile of his son–yes, his son–Mitchum found his chest tighten and was unwillingly drawn back to those two years in his life that had faded over time. He told Logan they were difficult, yes. But he didn't reveal to him just how exhilirating and free those years were. And he was drawn back to the memory of Logan lying on a hospital bed. That precious boy of a person who was just like him, a fact he was both proud and fearful of. And drawn to the memory of the woman--this Rory Gilmore--who, with one brief phone call, made him realize what he may have lost. _She loves Logan,_ he thought with some wonder and regret, knowing he had never found that himself in his wife Shira.

"What does your girlfriend have to do with all of this?" Mitchum asked after some time.

"Nothing," Logan replied, knowing that Rory thought he was now on the plane to London.

"And everything," he said next. "I feel I'm a stronger, better person when I'm with Rory, which is something you may not understand. She'll help me through this. I want to sort out my life for her. I know I'm messing up your plans, but…" he shrugged, wanting to say he was sorry but knowing he wasn't.

"I have to go back to her now." With those words, Logan turned and began to limp his way to the door.

"Logan," Mitchum called out as Logan was reaching for the knob. "For lack of a better term, here's a...a proposition I want to make to you. Just listen."

More out of curiosity than any real desire to keep on arguing his decision, Logan faced his father. "Okay. Shoot."


	5. Surprises, Surprises

5. Surprises, Surprises

Rory paced back and forth in the foyer, the painted cherubs on the ceiling beaming down on her. She glanced up, the word _creepy_ coming to mind, wondering how she could ever have thought of this house–this building made of marble and stone–as "amazing". _Okay angels, God, Michaelangelo, whoever, please look upon this crazy daughter of yours who doesn't know what the frak she's doing here! And without any caffeine in her system, too! _

She had rehearsed her spiel to Mitchum on the drive over, intending to tell him that despite Logan going off to London, as he ordered, Mitchum has to stop treating his son like some investment that he has to manage. That Logan has such great potential, if only he could be set free to make his own choices and forge his own path.

Rory stopped in front of the grandfather clock, staring at her reflection on the glass, but seeing instead Logan helping her "save" the Yale Daily News at the last minute, pitching in with his wonderful articles and his natural leadership. She saw herself flinging into his arms and their sweet reconciliation once the paper was in press, realizing then that there was so much more to Logan than she herself saw at the surface. Mitchum needed to see this, too.

Unfortunately, all her righteous indignation was sucked into the cool marble of the Huntzberger mansion the minute she was ushered into the threshold by the maid. "Mr. Huntzberger is with someone now, Ma'am, and asked not to be disturbed," she said, clearly not knowing who Rory was.

"Thank you, I'll just wait around here," she replied politely.

"Can I offer you something to drink while you're waiting? Coffee? Soda?" the maid asked.

"Uh…" Rory was dying to say 'coffee', but keeping intact some semblance of pride, she demurred, "No, thank you." She will not drink from the precious china of these people who have whisked Logan off to London. So there!

So now she waited for Mitchum to end his meeting, glancing out through the curtains to see Frank leaning by his limo, parked some distance from the driveway. He had beamed and tipped his cap to her as she passed him on her walk up to the house. That means Logan has been deposited at the airport, and is flying over the Atlantic at this moment, she thought with an ache in her chest. Impulsively, she flips out her cell phone, wanting more than anything to call him to say…_hi._ But she frets for a moment, unsure whether her call can be transmitted if he's already on the plane. And what would she tell him when he asks, _so where are you? What are you doing now?_

She returns the phone in her purse, just as the door to Mitchum's study began to jiggle open. In a moment of panic, Rory half-ran to the nearest bathroom. She closed the door and leaned back. _Scaredy-cat coward!_

She took a few deep breaths and realized she was in what she and Logan jokingly referred to as the "library". When trapped in some boring society event his parents are hosting, when they've done their duty and exchanged empty pleasantries with the bejewelled blue-bloods of Connecticut, they would politely excuse themselves and say they must now visit the library. To peruse Mitchum and Elias's new acquisitions. _How well-read you are, how adorable! _the blue-bloods would exclaim, blissfully unaware that what Logan and Rory would be studying is each other. Deep study, to be sure.

Rory now closed her eyes and conjured up the image of Logan holding her tight to his body, Logan's hands through her hair, kissing her eyes and cheeks before descending and delving into her mouth. Logan lifting her dress and touching her in the most intimate way possible; she caressing him in kind. He would then lift her onto the sink, her legs around his waist, as they frantically merge and collide in a haze of excitement (she more nervous, but excited nonetheless).

_Logan, _Rory murmured into his blonde hair. A door shut heavily in the distance, bringing Rory back to the bathroom–because its no library without Logan–and her flushed reflection in the bathroom mirror. She had a sudden, inexplicable sixth sense that Logan was actually with her, sharing the same space with her. That if she turned around, he would be there. But it lasted a moment, then was gone. _Stay with me, _she pleaded inwardly. _You always give me the necessary push when I'm scared._

With a sigh, she turns on the tap and splashes water on her face. _This is no way to face Mitchum! _she berated herself. She leaves the bathroom just in time to catch Mitchum striding purposefully across the foyer. They both stop with some surprise, looking wide-eyed at each other like two skittish animals caught off-guard by oncoming headlights.

"Mitchum," Rory ventured.

"Rory," he replied. Then questioningly, "Rory?" He glanced out the window, Rory following his gaze to see the limo drive away to the distance. He began to shake his head, chuckling. "Rory? What are you doing here?"

Rory felt more uncomfortable than ever. _Mitchum chuckling at her expense? How evil! _"I wanted to tell you something. It won't take long. I know you're busy, it's early, you probably haven't even had coffee or breakfast, I know I haven't, so this wouldn't take time, really," she rambled. "Logan left this morning, of course you know that, and well, I wanted to talk about him," Rory finished with more emphasis.

Mitchum couldn't wipe the half-smile from his face. He didn't mean to terrify the girl, as she obviously was, but Rory in his house not two minutes after Logan is funny, in a comedy-of-errors sort of way. "Did Logan put you up to this?" he asked.

"Oh no. No. Logan has no idea I'm here. He'd probably think its…"

"Foolish?" Mitchum answered. "Well then, you're here, so why don't you come into my study so you can say your piece and we can both have our coffee, hm?"

Rory followed him to his study, shifting her weight from leg to leg as she stood in front of his desk, her hands rubbing across her abdomen as she is wont to do when she's nervous. She collected her thoughts, zeroing in on her encounter with Mitchum in the elevator the day before.

…_It's time for him to start focusing on his future, and the only way he is gonna do that is to get him out of his environment and away from those dopes, Colin and Finn, and the Life and Death Brigade, and get him on a path. Logan is talented, he's talented! He's my son. I want him to achieve something. And he needs a push. It's what my father did with me. He pushed me, I grew up, and now Logan is gonna grow up. _

"I agree with what you told me yesterday, when we rode the elevator together," she began. "The part about Logan being talented, I mean. I've worked with him at the Daily News, and he writes wonderfully. Not often enough," Rory admits ruefully, recalling many a time when she tried to convince Logan to write more. It was as if Logan was reluctant or afraid to acknowledge his own penchant for journalism. "But always excellent research, and well thought-out pieces. And I say this not as a girlfriend–in case you're thinking I'm biased–but as a writer myself and editor."

"I hardly need to be told this, Rory," Mitchum interrupted. "I wasn't sending him to London to be taught how to be a journalist. It's already in his blood."

"But see, it's not. Being what you want to be has nothing to do with bloodlines or family destiny. It has to do with discovery and choice. I know Logan, I love him," Rory simply said. "And I know that he feels stifled and frustrated and unhappy in any situation where he feels he doesn't have any freedom, when he feels he's being compelled to do something, rather than him choosing it freely."

"I know my son, too. You underestimate me if you think I don't," Mitchum replied in turn.

"Then why?" Rory asked plaintively. "Why make him do something that you and I know he doesn't want to do?"

"Are you sure he doesn't want it, Rory?" Mitchum retorted. "London, being a journalist, being in charge of our family business?"

"I…I…okay," Rory sighed, sitting on a chair, seemingly defeated. "I can't say unequivocally that he doesn't want this. But that's not my point. I'm sorry if all this seems pointless to you, now that Logan is in London. I just hope he can have some more leeway to find himself and figure out what he really wants. Not have it dictated to him."

Mitchum considered Rory reflectively, a bit amused, but impressed nonetheless, at the lengths she just went through to appeal to him on Logan's behalf. _Not as passive or conforming as I thought, _he admitted. She did have some moxie.

"Rory," Mitchum started, standing up from his chair and pacing in front of her. "Do you have any idea what it is like to be part of a family like the Huntzbergers?"

A dull pang settled in Rory's stomach. "No, apparently I do not, as your wife and father had so plainly made clear to me a year ago when Logan brought me over for the shanghai dinner surprise," she reminded him with an arched brow.

"No, no, no, that's not what I meant," Mitchum exclaimed, exasperated. "I don't mean in terms of marriage. I meant for Logan. For me. And my father and his father before him. Do you have any idea?"

Rory contemplated his question and slowly shook her head. "My own life and how I was brought up has been completely different from Logan's."

In her mind, she recalled her graduation speech, forever memorized: _My mother never gave me any idea that I couldn't do whatever I wanted to do or be whomever I wanted to be. She filled our house with love and fun and books and music, unflagging in her efforts to give me role models from Jane Austen to Eudora Welty to Patti Smith. _

"Yes, I figured that is the case," Mitchum nodded. "I know Emily's daughter had fled from her own pre-ordained life. Kudos to her for that, indeed," he added.

"We, however, have obligations to our family. To the legacy that had been built up for generations. You don't have to believe me, but Logan and I are more similar than you think; we are built from the same mold. I struggled and fought and resisted, and he is now feeling the same. In the end, however, I saw and reaped the rewards of working for my family. I am confident Logan will end up there as well," Mitchum finished, walking to the mini-bar to pour himself a drink.

"If you're so confident, then, why not give him some slack?" Rory countered. "Or are you so afraid that he wouldn't, after all, end up like you?" Inwardly, Rory fervently wished that Logan would not end up like Mitchum, the man she once so admired, but who now seemed so one-dimensional, a man stuck in a mold.

"Would it be so terrible if your son didn't end up like you?" she near-whispered. Rory stood up and smoothed her sleeves, fussed over her skirt. "I should go. Thank you for your time. I don't know what my visit had done for you, but I think it did me some good." She felt more ready to accept Logan's departure, now that she had expressed to Mitchum what she thought about it.

Mitchum leaned back against his desk, his head cocked and looking at her. He thought of himself as a jaded, cynical fool when it came to life and love. He had sacrificed too much. _How different would things have been if he had someone like Rory Gilmore in his life? _He felt…what? Envy? Fear?...that yes, perhaps Logan's life would take a different turn.

"You surprise me, Rory Gilmore," he said loudly. "I confess that I underestimated you. But I've been pleasantly surprised by Logan of late, and I believe it is entirely your doing." He was referring to Logan's more responsible behavior and attitude after his accident…and of course Logan's visit to him that morning. He offered a smile at Rory's wide eyes. "Oh, and yes, I've read your work at the Daily News, and I do think it is exemplary."

He turned and sat behind his desk, opening the newspaper with a snap, apparently having dismissed Rory. Rory, speechless, walked towards the door.

"By the way," Mitchum called out, not lifting his head from the paper. "Have a great summer."

"A great summer?" Rory asked with puzzlement. What an odd goodbye, considering they both knew full well what a miserable summer it would be these first few months without Logan. Not hearing anything more from Mitchum, she left the house and spent the rest of the drive to Stars Hollow pondering his words.


	6. The Man With A Plan

6. The Man With A Plan

The limo slowed at the curb, but Logan again had already opened the door before the car had come to a complete stop. Frank shook his head, _that boy would break his neck before I can retire. But broken bones seem like a small price to pay for Ms. Rory,_ he thought with fondness–and approval, as Mr. Logan told him to return to their Yale apartment via the speediest way possible. He did wonder why Logan left the Huntzberger mansion without Ms. Rory, but he wasn't one to ask. Just as he never asked about the shushed noises and mysterious thumps in the backseat when those two were together, noises and thumps he was thankfully spared from today.

Logan strode to the elevator, side-stepping an extremely startled George, who seemed to want to tell him something but he had already pushed the button "12" with his cane. "Hey George, what's up?" he called out happily, as the elevator door closed.

_What's "up" is not Ms. Rory Gilmore,_ George thought unhappily. First he receives a call from Ms. Gilmore alerting him to the stalled elevator, which brought him to a preoccupied and lost Mr. Huntzberger needing his assistance to go down to the lobby, then he spends an uncomfortable minute with a teary Ms. Gilmore, wringing her hands as they went down to the lobby as well, then now Mr. Huntzberger again–all chirpy–going up to his empty apartment. Never before did he have to rely so heavily on his 5-star training as a doorman to remain discreet amidst all these bizarre comings-and-goings.

---------------------------------------------

As he waited for the elevator to arrive at the 12th floor, Logan remembered yet again his words to Rory that fateful night at The Rich Man's Shoe.

_Really? It's all so easy for me? I don't want that life, it's forced on me! You talk about all these doors being open–all I see is ONE door, and I'm being pushed through it. I have no choice. You try living without options._

For maybe the first time in his life, he asked his father to give him a choice. And for the first time in his life, his father had given him one. Doors were opening. He finally felt he was headed somewhere.

The elevator doors parted, and Logan limped to 12B with huge strides. He wondered for a second whether he should be more stealthy and surprise her, but his heart was so full he couldn't help but shout "Ace!" as he turned his key in the lock.

"Ace? Rory?" he called out, noticing with some puzzlement that she still hadn't cleared up after last night's party. She usually didn't leave things in a mess for too long. She always ribbed him about being worse than her mother, which he knew--having been told of Lorelai's methods of keeping house--meant something pretty bad. "Ace, are you here?" he asked, walking into their bathroom. _Well, that's it, _Logan thought, surveying the entire apartment with a glance. _She's not here, _he realized with disappointment.

_Should I wait, _he wondered. _Did she go to the Daily News? Did she go out for coffee? _He sat on the couch to take a minute, and automatically ended up slouching back into the cushions and closing his eyes. He'd had a restless night and an even more restless morning. It was noon, and he felt dead tired all of a sudden.

_I have a proposition for you._

_Okay. Shoot._

_Mitchum had approached him then, reaching for his wallet in his back pocket and pulling out a business card. He gives it to Logan._

"_Robert Stansfeld," Logan read aloud. Then whipped his head up to look at his father. "The Robert Stansfeld of Morning Cup Enterprises?" Understanding slowly dawned on him. "Why are you doing this?" he asked Mitchum._

"_The last thing you want right now is me around you breathing down your neck," Mitchum told him pointedly. "Don't bother denying it."_

"_I'm not going to," Logan replied. "But Morning Cup is the closest competitor of Huntzberger Media. This means you're either feeding me to the wolves, or using me as a pawn, grooming me as a spy, or…"_

"_Or letting you go on your way. In good faith, Logan," Mitchum continued for him. "Consider yourself a Yale graduate with a knack for writing, out looking for a job," Mitchum shrugged. "I've just given you a good connection."_

"_Right. And I'm just supposed to saunter over to their head office in New York, submit a CV, turn up for an interview, and say 'oh by the way, I'm Logan Huntzberger. Yes, that Huntzberger'? Or do you expect me to change my name, go incognito? If this is weird to me, imagine how they would take it, dad," Logan argued, confused._

"_Oh, let them think what they want. Make up a story that I've cut you off, whatever you want to tell them," Mitchum waved his hands, now having a bit more fun with the idea. "You can take this however you want, but my only intention is this, Logan: I've only ever wanted you to spend some time getting your feet wet in journalism, the newspaper business. Now if you get it in your head that that's what you want too, then go ahead and do it elsewhere; it doesn't have to be in my house."_

_Logan opened his mouth to speak, but Mitchum interrupted him: "BUT," he pointed a finger at Logan, "I repeat, in good faith, Logan." With that, both Logan and Mitchum turned away from each other, Logan to the door and Mitchum to his desk._

"_And Bob is the one I respect the most among the lot of them," Mitchum followed through, as he settled in his chair. "You won't get eaten alive in that wolf's den," he smirked. "Unless you let yourself. I'm not really doing you any favors, Logan."_

_"Oh, I can believe that, dad." And so he left without needing to thank his father._

Logan came back to the present, in his and Rory's apartment, with the words 'in good faith' stuck in his mind. That means, in Mitchum-speak: Don't do anything that would fuck up my company. _Don't fuck up, period. _If you do fuck up, don't come running back to me. Now If you don't fuck up and you find what you want during this time that _I-your-father _am giving you, then go and work for me in Huntzberger Media. In the meantime, don't the fuck expect anything from me.

He wasn't sure what to think. Mitchum listening to him, let alone pushing him practically in the opposite direction of London, had him feeling thrown and not a little suspicious. His father was shrewd and devious when he wanted to be; he always thought of things in terms of how he and his company could benefit. Even–or maybe especially–when it came to his son. He was a jackass that way; always needing to come out with the upper hand.

But whatever his motives, to Logan it was a way out. He can decide to work for Bob Stansfeld. Or he could not. With or without Mitchum's machinations, he could wing this. He could deal with wolves. Or he could just write. Write and be within hours from Rory. _You are like me, _Mitchum had said. Logan winced inwardly. Whatever that entailed, he hoped he could be less of an ass at least.

He heaved a sigh, and started clearing up empty plates, cups, confetti. As he moved from the living room to the kitchen, he felt growing anticipation at his new freedom. _Write out a job application? _he mused. Rory would mock him forever for that, especially when he tells her he probably needs her help. Rory. Where is she? What would she think? She would likely fret and fume and immediately think the worst of Mitchum. But he'll be near her. And he'll be happier than he can ever be than if he were in London. That should make her happy, too, right? It's too good a deal to pass up.

Moving from the living room to their work/study corner (which really was just Rory's work/study corner), Logan removed coffee-stained mugs from her desk, and absent-mindedly glanced through her stacks of folders, piled neatly on one side of the table and lined up on the shelf on top. _Color-coded, of course, _he chuckled. With an impish grin, he impulsively laid out the pile on her desk, and haphazardly rearranged them on top of each other. _She'll kill me._

He stopped abruptly when he paused long enough to read her handwriting on the spines of the folders in front of him. Several red folders said _China (Beijing or Taiwan?)_. Each folder had a different neon-colored tab stuck in front: yellow for "Sights", blue for "Food", green for "Shopping", pink for "Other trivial but potentially important details". _Oh, Ace, my notes-freak. _The blue folders were for _Vietnam, _all equipped with the same tabs. Yellow folders read _Thailand (Bangkok AND Phuket!)._ A single white folder, the thinnest of the lot, for _England._

With a knot in his throat, Logan sat down on their bed, dropping Rory's folders beside him as he began to peruse each one.

_They were at General Lee's, eating a formidable 12-course lauriat. Rory smacked her lips at her General Tso's chicken, exclaiming "General Tso, I place my bet on you whipping Colonel KFC's ass in an Iron Chef chicken face-off!" _

_Logan shook his head at her, forever amazed and a bit intimidated at his girlfriend's appetite. "I don't even think a General Tso exists. He's a figment of some New Yorker's imagination, or whoever it was who conceived of Chinatown and cardboard take-out boxes."_

"_Nope. I have it on good authority that General Tso was an esteemed, feared military warlord who fought many bloody battles towards the end of the Ming dynasty. Or was it the Q'ang?" Rory retorted._

"_Bloody battles, huh. Fought with General Lee the restauranteur I presume. Now I know why the chicken is red and spicy," Logan snapped his chopsticks, mocking Rory as she shoved him. _

"_Do not mock me while I'm eating, Logan!" she threatened with a laugh._

"_Ace, I bet if we went to China, we wouldn't be able to find a single dish named after either General in any restaurant we went to."_

"_Now that's just sad. You doubting my knowledge of Asian history, and the idea that there could be no General Tso to be had for the billions of Chinese folk." _

"_Well…there's only one way to settle this, you know…" Logan suggested on impulse, suddenly inspired by his crazy debate with Rory. And the Asia tour was hatched over the remaining 7 courses of their Chinese dinner. And the remainder of their evening in bed._

_"Logan, I'm happy," Rory said with a shy smile to Logan, who moved slowly from above her to beside her. _

_"Oh, I fully expected you would be. I think we set the record for 'most mind-blowing sex after a 12-course dinner', if there ever was a category for that," he mumbled sleepily, pulling Rory against him. "I swear you're turning me into an overweight sex slave. And yes, I'm happy too, Ace," he whispered as his eyes finally drifted shut, letting her know he heard her. _

_"I'm happy that you and I are planning this trip together," Rory continued, "because that means we are actually thinking about 'us' in the next 3 months. Us, together. A far cry from the little arrangement I cooked up at my grandparents' vow renewal, don't you think?" Rory jabbed his rib when he didn't answer. "Low-gan," she breathed into his ear..._

_Surprising Rory, Logan replied, "Us together for much much longer...longer than the next 3 months, and for much much farther, farther away than Asia."_

_He wouldn't say "forever", that might scare the heebeejeebies out of her. It certainly felt that way, though._

_Satisfied, Rory dropped a final kiss on Logan's mouth, and got settled for sleep--her leg caught between his, her face smooshed against his shoulder. _

A few days later, the ugly confrontation with Mitchum happened at the Vineyard, where Rory first heard about his father's plan to ship him off to London. This was followed by the chapter in their relationship known as "The Bridesmaids". And then things went downhill from there, quite literally, and he had the broken ribs to show for it. Asia was forgotten in the haze of bed rest and anesthesia, the mad scramble to graduation, and London.

Until now. Staring at a blue folder in his hand, Logan felt a deep urge to kick himself and break the kneecap of his good leg.

With a grunt of impatience, Logan stood up and paced–hobbled–from one end of the bed to the other. Long minutes passed, until his regret dissipated and the hopefulness he earlier felt coming into the apartment returned. He absolutely loved it when a plan started coming together. Especially when it involved Rory.

He grabbed the phone that was haphazardly thrown on the couch. He looked at the last number dialled, and saw that it was Lorelai's mobile. _Yes, she's most likely at Stars Hollow. _

Then he punched more numbers, and said to the person who answered, "Finn?...No, it's my voice from the dead, come back to haunt you and ask you to pay back the $5 you owe me, plus damages for my punctured lung…"

"…No mate, I'm actually in New Haven…it's a long story, now stop groaning, rehydrate your ass and get it here. I still have a plane to catch!"


	7. Her Cup Overflows

7. Her Cup Overflows

Rory stirred her cup of joe, seemingly mesmerized by the lights sparkling on the tennis bracelet clasped on her wrist. Feeling drained after parting with Logan, confronting Mitchum, and driving to Stars Hollow, she sought out Lorelai and her childhood home for relief. But relief wasn't to be had, for Lorelai wasn't home.

"Mom? Mom! I'm home for my wallow," she had called out, bearing grocery bags chock-full of eats that Luke and the U.S. Surgeon General would probably declare hazardous to anyone's health.

"Mom?" Rory left the bags in the kitchen then bounded up the stairs to Lorelai's bedroom, but stopped short at the doorway with some surprise. The room had a strange musty-stale-air feel to it, like no one had been in it for days. Stepping through to the bathroom, Rory found no clothes strewn about nor wet towels on the floor.

Walking downstairs, she called in sing-song, "Paul Anka, here boy…" but no hairball came running to her either. _She must be at Luke's, _Rory concluded. _She must have spent the night there after Friday night dinner, and Babette must be sitting for Paul Anka in the meantime._

Luke seemed incredibly surprised to see her as she arrived at his diner, though. Wide-eyed and flustered, he said "Rory, uh…what a surprise! Uh…does Lorelai know you're here?"

"Nope she doesn't. I spoke to her this morning but I didn't mention I'd be coming over. She's not at home either so I figured she'd be here," Rory replied. Luke had dark circles under his eyes, she noted. And he was wringing the washcloth into a tight little ball. _What's going on?_

"Oh! You spoke with her this morning, good, good," Luke nodded, appearing relieved. "And, uh…she's fine?"

"Is everything alright, Luke? Yes she seemed…okay enough. It was me who wasn't, really," Rory hedged, looking hopefully at the coffee machine over Luke's shoulder.

Luke caught the look and reached for the pot. "Yes, yes of course…things are…well, the usual." He was glad to turn his back on Rory for a moment to collect himself, fiddling with the coffee machine's buttons for a few seconds. Seeing Rory brought him back unwillingly to the night before, to Lorelai's ultimatum which he still couldn't fully comprehend. And to his unfortunate response.

"So I gather Mom's not here either, huh?" Rory asked, warming her hands around her mug as Luke poured out coffee. "Where is she?" she asked.

"Uh…I don't know. It's been crazy here, Saturday crowd…" Luke answered lamely. "But I spoke to her last night," he threw out casually, as he ducked his head under the counter to rearrange mugs and plates.

"Well she didn't seem to have slept at home," Rory said plaintively.

This threw Luke off guard, and he jerked his head up from under the counter, hitting the edge with his nose. "Ow, damn!" he cursed, rubbing his nose. "What?"

"Oh, I should just call her!" Rory smacked her head. _My head is missing today, _she ruefully thought. _As is my heart. _She stepped outside to make her call, ever mindful of Luke's aversion to mobile phones in his diner.

Luke looked after her, lost in his own thoughts. He had thought about calling her himself, a hundred times since the night before, but he couldn't seem to press the "1" to speed-dial to Lorelai. With just a single press of a button, he could reach her and hear her voice. It seemed too…fast. _Damn these cell phones! _Automatic and abrupt and cold. It was better this way. She probably needs some time anyway. That, or _I'm a low-life coward, _he scowled.

Rory returned and Luke got busy again behind the counter. "She said she's at Grandma's, helping her with something" Rory shrugged, and slid back onto her seat. She hunkered down over her coffee, her hair falling around her like a shroud. With a final small smile to Luke, she then shut herself off from the chatter and clatter of her surroundings and stared into her coffee.

Luke heaved a sigh, and contemplated the weight of Rory's hair falling around her shoulders. He should be a mite thankful that she seemed too preoccupied to notice what was going on between him and Lorelai. _Not that he knew what was going on himself. _He motioned to Ceasar to take orders, jerking his head towards Kirk at the end of the counter who was coughing loudly to get his attention. He cleared his throat as he bent forward, placing his elbows beside Rory's and asked with uncharacteristic gentleness: "Everything okay with you?"

Rory replied quietly, without looking up, "Logan left this morning. To spend that year in London." That should be enough to explain everything.

Luke paused and tried to think of something to say. He ended up squeezing her arm instead, then going back to the bustle of the diner, retreiving plates from the kitchen and weaving in and around tables.

And Rory continued to stir her coffee.

The truth was that she was never one to wallow. Not with Dean nor with Jess. She was never one to serve up her heart on a platter, anxious but ready to be cut up or protected, hurt or loved. Except with Logan, who waltzed into her ordinary life, all arrogant and confident, _a butt-faced miscreant._

To this day, she couldn't quite explain in plain ol' English why she loves…why her heart can ache this way just thinking about him. It sounded so lame to her own ears, hearing herself say it out loud to Jess when she saw him in Philadelphia. When she shook from head to toe with the intensity of it, her insides were bursting with it that she felt she had to cover her mouth or eyes for fear it spilling out. That was how it was when she heard from Colin about Logan's accident, her fist in her mouth, her tears flowing hard and fast all the way to New York where Logan lay black and blue on a hospital bed.

That she could feel this way used to scare her. She often felt she had to be more guarded around him, more tentative, because the full onslaught might be too much for her or Logan to absorb. So she held back, much to Logan's frustration, she knew. And well…the truth is that if you felt this strongly about someone, you can't help but wonder if he feels as you do. Especially if that someone has had such a colorful history with women, and no history to speak of when it came to a regular relationship.

She finally took a sip of her coffee to warm up the draft that the memory of the bridesmaids inevitably brought about. Deep down, she had an inkling that Logan might have resumed the ways of his former life, after they had been "taking time" for a month. It wasn't that he "cheated" on her, she had belatedly realized. What hurt her most is what it seemed to say about how he felt about her, that maybe he didn't love her enough. That she was like Alexandra or Walker or…that Four-Nose-Jobs. And that cut her too deeply. _Because she was never one to serve up her heart on a platter._

Rory felt a buzz in her pocket, and she half-jumped, spilling a bit of coffee. She flipped her mobile open and read the text message: _Ace, I miss you already. And if you're wearing your blue sweater, I miss you more. Don't call me, I'll be calling you in a while L. _Rory smiled wanly as she looked down at her turquoise blue V-neck and denim skirt. She knew it was silly, the feeling that hounded her all day that Logan was just around the corner. She couldn't help turning on her stool and looking around and behind her. _Trust Logan to know that today I'd be wearing his favorite sweater of mine. _

Maybe it was this about him that made her fall for him. That on any given day, he can predict what sort of outfit she would grab from her closet, whether she was in a college-girl or Mary Tyler Moore mode. Whether she would use her curling iron or not. Whether she's had her three cups, or just one. Whether she was about to say something serious or something stupid. Whether she wanted it painstakingly slow, or hard and fast. He could read her in a way no one else, not even her mother, can. He knew to step back when she seemed to need space, but challenged her when she was plagued with self-doubt.

_Isn't this the point of being young? It's your choice, Ace. People can live a hundred years without really living for a minute. You climb up here with me, it's one less minute you haven't lived. _

It certainly has felt that way, after having been with Logan for a year. She was still in one piece, all appendages intact, though her heart felt..._used_, if not a little bruised. But _used_ in the alive-and-kicking-blood-pumping sense. Man alive, she was such a cliche.

In the last few weeks, though, they seemed to coast along more slowly, literally taking one step at a time, as Logan recovered from his accident. It was this interlude she cherished most. Without talking about it, she and Logan settled into a routine of spending most nights in, just reading or watching a movie. Sometimes Colin and Finn dropped by to make a mess, or Paris and Doyle, who managed to browbeat Logan into watching their beloved "penguin movie" (he fell asleep of course). Everyday, they managed to eat at least one meal together, exchanging stories of their day and sections of the newspaper like some old doddering couple. Which they're not–old and doddering, that is–but a couple, _yes really._

"_C'mon Logan, just one more set…pretty please!" Rory barked._

"_That doesn't sound pretty-pleasish to me," Logan complained. "I'm kind of tired, Ace, pretty please?" he pleaded in turn._

"_No you're not, lazybones. We've done only one set. Yesterday you did three," Rory reminded him, pulling him to his feet for his daily rehab routine. "Doctor's orders!"_

"_I thought this was the doctor you couldn't trust? The one with the degree from Johns Hopkins, remember?" Logan teased, but grudgingly got to his feet. "And I only did three because you promised me a lollipop afterwards if I was a good boy," he added with a wink._

_Rory pinkened to the roots of her hair. "Huntzberger, this is hardly the time to be working blue," she huffed. "One, Dr. Schaeffer is from Harvard, which, according to Paris, tops Johns Hopkins. Two, you're doing so well Logan, stronger everyday. Soon you can jump off buildings again, if you're so stupidly inclined" she said. "And three, you did get your treat, so you know I keep my end of the bargain, as you should, mister."_

"_Ah well…I suppose a full-body massage, then," Logan sighed in mock reluctance, wincing as he began to flex and stretch his leg. "And by the way, you got the lollipop, not I," he smirked._

_With that definitively blue comment, Rory unexpectedly let go of Logan's arm to swat his shoulder. He lost his balance and stumbled sideways, hitting his torso against a sidetable. He grunted at the shot of pain, and Rory caught him, immediately contrite. "Oaf! Me, not you. God, sorry Logan! Does it hurt terribly...oh, my bad my bad." She rubbed his side gently as her arms returned around his waist._

"_No treats for you, missy," he muttered, still grimacing and hating that a bump like that could still hurt him. "Don't let go," Logan said._

"_Now you know what sort of havoc I wrought in that nursing home during my community service," Rory joked, smiling into his eyes as they sat down to take a moment. "I needed a sentinel to shout 'Rory Gilmore, clumsy oaf' to warn people to get out of my way, lest they break a hipbone."_

_Feeling her laughing against him, Logan felt a sudden and inexplicable rush of warmth at being held by Rory. He held his hand to her cheek. "Don't let go of me, Rory," Logan said again. "Don't let me fall." _

Maybe it was that about him that made _her_ fall, finally. That despite–or because of–the Huntzberger name, Mitchum and Shira and the LDB, the American Express Black card, he was, well...just Logan after all. He needed her. Master-and-Commander he may claim to be (and of course she'll never admit that he is), but broken still, inside and out.

_If only we had more time to just be,_ Rory thought, sad but tearless. More time together than apart. Time for her to tell him how she needed him to not let go of her, too. That she was no longer afraid. _You jump, I jump._


	8. A Starry Not Hollow Reunion

8. A Starry Not Hollow Reunion

Logan contemplated Rory from outside the diner, appreciating the blue of her sweater which he knew set off her brilliant eyes. He couldn't wait to look into her eyes. She was hunched over the counter, her left hand supporting her head, her right stirring her coffee. She's been stirring for the last 7 minutes, not pausing since receiving his message. He could hazard a guess about what was going on in her mind, what was keeping her preoccupied enough to leave her coffee out cold.

His gaze turned to Luke, who was balancing two plates and staring at him from inside the diner. He glanced at Rory and opened his mouth as if to speak, but Logan waved a hand, shook his head _don't._ Luke obediently shut his mouth.

He looked up at the sky, noted the clear weather. He hoped that Finn was taking care of matters at his end. With that thought, Logan entered Luke's, a historic place in his girlfriend's life but a first for him, ironically. He made his way slowly to Rory, oblivious to the surreptitious looks of the customers who were quick to notice that a stranger had entered their midst.

"Coffee for me, Luke, and a honey-glazed doughnut for this lady here," Logan calmly told Luke, moving onto the stool beside Rory. "She looks like she's in dire need of a sugar boost."

Rory moved her head a fraction as if to shake off a dream where Logan was saying, "Hi, Ace." Spinning around on her stool, her blue eyes widened and her mouth unabashedly hung open in disbelief at seeing the leather-clad blonde grinning beside her, in the flesh. _Did she conjure him up, magically, with her thoughts?_

"Now I really wish _I_ was the one with a camera to capture that picture-perfect face," Logan chuckled. "_That_ would be a real keeper."

With a whoosh, Rory let out the breath she had been shallowly holding all day (no wonder her chest hurt) as she flung herself at Logan, causing him to fall back against Kirk as he readily caught Rory in his arms.

"Yeow!" Kirk complained. "Stop with the jostling. I have to keep very still while eating or the nutrients aren't properly absorbed by my body," he said loudly, chewing a forkful of pie.

Luke glared at Kirk, but for the life of him couldn't wipe the smile off his face as he watched Logan nearly lose his balance, and Rory holding on to him and helping him steady himself. They had on silly faces. _Lorelai should see this,_ the thought came, unbidden.

"What are you doing here?" Rory demanded, kissing Logan once, hard, on the mouth. "What are you doing here? In Stars Hollow?"

"I swear you don't sound happy to see me, Ace," Logan replied, burrowing his nose in her hair and kissing her in turn, gently, before releasing her enough to take a look around.

"Well…I thought this was as good a time as any to visit my girlfriend's childhood home…you know, meet the folks, have coffee at Luke's, dinner at the Dragonfly, and a movie at…" he broke off as Rory rolled her eyes and clutched his leather jacket like she was about to strangle him.

"Oh, and I suppose you'll just hustle along back to London after this little detour?" Rory retorted. Her chest still hurt, but now with wonderment at what Logan here in the Hollow can mean.

"Ah. Well. About London…" Logan's face turned pensive. He was too full with words and explanations and hopes, that for a moment he couldn't speak. "You won't believe this, Rory, but…I went to see my dad."

"I went to see your dad," Rory blurted out.

They stared. "You did what?" they asked each other, simultaneously.

"Hey Toots!" Babette called out to Rory. "You've got quite a little vaudeville act goin' on and I'm about to pass the hat 'round here, 'cept that we don't know who your leading man is!" she cackled.

"And we're always on the look-out for blonde boys who might look good in tights," Miss Patty chimed in, making eyes at Logan. "Doesn't he remind you of a young Robert Redford?" she turned to the folks seated at the surrounding tables.

"Babette…Patty…" Luke growled. "Okay now, show's over for God's sake!" Luke's voice boomed. "Rory, Logan, why don't you go upstairs and talk over there? You really don't want to do this out here…"

Rory and Logan finally looked around them and realized that everyone in the late afternoon coffee crowd was staring at them with great interest.

"Oh. Right," Rory dropped her arms from around Logan, running her hands through her hair in embarrassment. "Right, oh hello everyone! Er, this is Logan Huntzberger, my…boyfriend…" she said in a small voice.

"Hi, Logan!" the crowd replied in sing-song, Miss Patty the loudest.

"Oh yeah, uh…Hey! My pleasure," Logan replied vaguely, a bit startled but still flashing his vintage smile. Rory sure wasn't kidding when she said the townspeople were "quaint".

Rory grabbed his hand and prodded him to the stairwell up to Luke's apartment. Luke looked after them as they disappeared, and heaved a sigh. Why did it seem so much easier for those two, he wondered. In those 5 minutes that they got together, it was patently obvious to the entire town how much they cared about each other. _Logan did seem to love Rory,_ he admitted grudgingly. Luke began to vigorously rub the countertop with a rag, as his thoughts unwillingly descended once again to Lorelai's face the night before.

"Hey, your countertop is jiggling, and I can't have jiggling," Kirk said, interrupting his train of thought.

"Here's a piece of toast to make up for those lost nutrients," Luke muttered, plopping blackish toast on Kirk's half-eaten pie, before throwing the rag on the counter.

"I thought everyone was feeling the love here?" Kirk called out, as Luke left the diner, slamming the door behind him.


	9. Logan, Colin, FinnTake A Bow!

9. Logan, Colin, Finn…Take A Bow!

As soon as Rory closed the door behind her, Logan pulled her into his arms in a close embrace. Their bodies melded naturally, that if not for her brown and his blonde, one couldn't tell where Rory's head ended and Logan's began. Logan wound his fingers around Rory's hair as he dropped a series of soft kisses on Rory's half-open mouth, before succumbing to her invitation and claiming it fully. Tongues caressing, lips moving gently with the other's, quiet breaths mingling, hands restless. Rory's throat began tightening involuntarily at the rawness she felt in that moment. It was as if they were trying to tell each other the things they weren't able to when Logan left that morning; there was so much left unsaid.

Still clinging to each other, Rory murmured into Logan's neck, "Wow. You should pack your bags, leave, and come back in 10 hours more often."

"Careful what you wish for, Ace," Logan chuckled. "You're gonna get it."

"Promise?" Rory replied, her real question hanging over them. _Are you back?_

Logan sighed and touched his forehead to Rory's. "I went to my dad when I should have gone to the airport this morning. Told him I needed time to think about London, what I really want to do in my life." Seeing Rory's eyes widen, Logan added sardonically, "I know. It's got to be my craziest, stupidest stunt ever, trying to reason with my dad on the dawn of my reign as Huntzberger heir. Could've just played Russian roulette with him."

Rory shook her head, not hiding her disbelief. "Logan…I just never thought…I didn't expect…"

"Neither did I. 'Cause you're right, Ace. For all my bad-ass behavior, I never questioned him, never really fought it. Maybe I thought I couldn't fight it, so what's the use?" he shrugged. "Until you…" he added, tucking her hair behind her ear.

"Me?" Rory echoed. She wasn't sure whether she should feel glad or worried that she might be deepening the rift between father and son.

"Until you, I never thought that I might want another life. That there were alternatives, choices, other doors. I never felt strong enough to question where my life was going, Rory, because there was never anyone at my back if I had gone another way. Until you," Logan said quietly against Rory's forehead. "And until this morning. When we actually had to say goodbye. That's when it really hit home."

She had to smile at his earnestness. "Ah, call me Charlize, and you're my Sweet November," Rory replied, rubbing his chest. "And," she added with a meaningful look, "you can thank me properly later for showing you the light."

Rory's comment made them pause a beat.

"If there _is_ a _'later'_," Rory said out loud. "I mean, how long are you here for, Logan? Tonight? The rest of the summer? What did your dad say? Is he giving you time? Are you still going to London? And when are…"

"Okay, okay, hold the interrogation!" he chuckled, holding a finger to her lips. "Yeah, I was hoping we could go someplace else to talk about this? It's a pretty long story and I see that Luke's is hardly the place to be at should things go out of hand, what with all your, er…friendly neighbors…" Logan hedged, looking around at Luke's apartment, and buying time. _Finn, Finn, Finn…_

"And what about you, hm?" he asked, turning the tables on her. "You had a bit of a tete-a-tete with Mitchum, and I need to know…should I be jealous? Paranoid? Did he offer you any good coffee at least, for your trouble?"

"Believe me, I needed something…stiffer than coffee," Rory said, recalling her anxiety. "I only wanted to tell him that…"

Rory's cell phone rang piercingly in the room, jarring the two apart. "Sorry, this might be Mom," she muttered, stepping away and opening her phone.

"Hello?...Who?…Hello, Finn? Finn is that you?" Rory looked at Logan, uttered a voiceless 'Finn' as she pointed to her phone. Logan's chest heaved…in relief.

"I can't hear you…what? Oh my God, where are you? Talk louder, its so noisy there! I said, TALK LOUDER!" Logan winced, and tried his best to furrow his brows and look worried.

"What? Where?...What the hell are you doing at the…airport? AIRPORT? Finn…God, are you even sober? Ah right, silly question! Hang on a sec…I said, HANG ON!" Rory began motioning frantically to Logan that they had to leave, pulling his hand behind her.

Logan grabbed Rory's phone from her ear. "Finn! What's up, mate?" They were going slowly down the stairs, Rory holding on to Logan's waist. "No…_I'm_ here, and _you're_ at the airport. I suppose this is what they call a 'mix-up'," Logan chuckled.

"Why is he at the airport? Ask him!" Rory was muttering to Logan, looking cranky as they stepped into the diner. Trust Finn to pull off a prank at such an inopportune moment. _Timing was never his best trait_, Rory thought, remembering countless episodes when Finn caught her and Logan in… _interesting_ situations, and the countless times she and Logan caught Finn in equally interesting situations, sans underwear. _She was well beyond embarrassed,_ she mused. Nothing can shock her anymore, and she loved him like a brother. Much to Finn's well-dramatized disappointment of course.

"Well, lucky for you I'm still around to save your inebriated ass…oh I know you'd prefer Ms. Gilmore, but I can't have you taking advantage of her like this while I'm away…Oh I'll always know, man, I'm omnipresent, remember?" Logan continued, as Rory rolled her eyes.

"…So it's _my_ fault you're there?...Aw mate, such a sweet gesture, it warms my heart…yeah, we'll be there. We'll call when we get there," Logan finished, shutting Rory's phone.

Rory was looking at Logan, her hands on her hips. "So?"

"So now we have to go to the airport and get Finn," Logan shrugged. "He wanted to see me off this morning, but he seems to have gotten into some trouble…" Logan looks at his watch, "…at some point in the last 11 hours. I couldn't get the whole story, but there was mention of 'airport security', 'redhead', and 'naked'. Not good." Logan then approached Rory to drop a quick kiss on her peeved mouth. "And we will talk. We do have time, I promise."

"Finn," Rory retorted, "always makes me hungry." She grabbed one—two—jelly-filled doughnuts from Luke's counter, balancing them on one hand as she took Logan's proferred hand in another. She hadn't eaten a thing all day.

---------------------------------------------

_Thump-de-dum-de-dumdee-thump_. Frank hummed noisily in his head, doing his best to concentrate on his driving. _Thump, thump…a gasp? _Barely audible, but definitely a gasp heard through the closed partition. He turned up the stereo a tad louder.

"Logan," Rory struggled to speak coherently, as Logan stretched her out on the seat. "You said we were going to…talk." She moaned softly, involuntarily, as Logan's hand inched up her thigh while nuzzling and sucking the sensitive spot under her ear.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, Ace," Logan murmured, "but this seems to be the more…urgent need. And mmm, I can't get enough of that yummy jelly doughnut," he added, kissing the remnants of sugar in her mouth. With a determined look, he pushed up the edge of Rory's sweater, revealing her stomach, so porcelain-like in its paleness and smoothness. Logan began a trail of kisses beginning from her navel, swirling his tongue around and in the small indentation, before moving upwards.

"I just really want to do this now, Rory."

Rory shut her eyes and ran her hands through Logan's blonde head, her body floating at the feel of his mouth on her torso. He didn't need to say more; she felt the same urgency, felt it at Luke's. Their day had been hellish and tense, alternately filled with sadness and uncertainty, self-ruminations and confrontations and revelations. It was too much to think about and feel in a day. Too much. They needed some relief. Just for now. Talk can come later.

Logan's mouth had finally reached Rory's chest, and she helpfully arched her back momentarily to have him unclasp her bra. Leaning on his elbow, Logan cupped one full breast with his hand, his thumb tracing patterns around and across her nipple. His other fingers busied themselves elsewhere, caressing her through her panties. He did this for what seemed to Rory an eternity, and he watched her breathing shallowly, biting her lip, shaking her head from side to side.

She tried valiantly to make him step things up. She lifted her knee, using it to stroke Logan's hardness, and which caused her legs to open a fraction. Now it was Logan who shut his eyes, moaning at the sensation of Rory's knee against him. He finally moved her underwear aside and slowly, teasingly, alternately, entering her with his fingers, then moving up to stroke her. In, up.

Rory's breathing and movements became more frantic. She reached down to jerk Logan's waistband and unbutton his pants, clasping him firmly in her hand. Just as he was tormenting her, she touched him the way she knew he liked, her hand moving up, down, over the length, the tip, the indentations. _God, this feels so good._ They both wanted it to end but not end.

Logan concentrated on Rory's face, keeping his mind on her, even as his body rampaged to near-breaking. She was on a different plane now, her other hand in a fist and hitting the back of the leather seat. _Thump_. At the right moment, Logan moved his fingers harder, more rapidly, as he dipped his head and took her breast in his mouth. And she was undone. Logan sucked hard, as if to consume her energy, her trembling. Spasmic, Rory clutched Logan's head as her fist came thumping against his back and against the seat. "Logan," she finally moaned against his hair, as her body bucked upwards.

"Have I already told you that you should pack your bags, leave, and come back in 10 hours more often?" Rory whispered, adjusting her body so as to receive Logan inside her.

Logan paused a moment, relishing the feel of Rory enveloping him, under him, around him. Wrapping her legs around his waist, Logan pressed into her and started to move. They became caught up in their rhythm, at pace with the ryhthm of the car moving with them, the ground moving underneath them, until their breaths and bodies overtook the car, ground, air.

"And when I leave and come back in 10 hours, I should always bring Frank," Logan smiled at Rory, brushing her hair away from her damp neck.

"Poor Frank," Rory shushed him, slightly embarassed. "Though there _is_ something about the limo though, huh? So much roomier than a Porsche," she said, poking fun at their cramped attempts to make out in Logan's car.

Frank wiped the beads of sweat from his own brow with his handkerchief. So much for the hi-fi fancy-pansy stereo system in the limo. Thank God they were nearing their destination.

---------------------------------------------

"Which gate, Finn? Did you say 'E' or 'G'?" Logan spoke loudly into his cell, looking impishly at Rory, flushed and mussed, staring at the Departures board.

_Chicago. Hong Kong. Amsterdam._ She couldn't help scanning the list of departures for the next flight to London. The situation felt surreal…Logan was here, with her, in the airport. He had simply said his name to the men at the departure area, and like some password, they were let through. Forget metal detectors, she probably could have gone with him this morning and waved to him _from the doorway of the plane_. If he had wanted her to. If he had gone.

She figured—hoped—he wouldn't be leaving tonight or anytime soon…would he? She looked back at Logan on the phone with Finn. His hair was artlessly…messier. She wished they could get Finn and be done with it, so he could tell her what's going on. Right now, she felt they were in limbo, like the travelers milling around them, neither coming nor going. Waiting to leave for their ultimate destination.

"Over there, Ace," Logan jerked his head, "he's at gate G-23."

"Why? What's he doing there?" Rory asked as they weaved their way through intrepid travelers pulling their carts and baggage.

Logan shrugged. "Apparently, he had gone to the airport this morning in the hopes of surprising me and seeing me off," Logan explained, shaking his head as if to say, _you just gotta love Finn_.

"Probably couldn't pass up the chance to share one last toast, even at 7 in the morning, that's how much he adores ya," Rory replied.

"Then he claims to have met a mysterious redhead…"

"Mysterious. A redhead. Right."

"…At the coffee bar where he was trying to douse his hangover with a venti latte. A hangover courtesy of one Gwyneth Paltrow-wannabe with a worse British accent, if you recall," Logan teased.

"Anyway, he swore he had met his soulmate…"

"Again," Rory interrupted.

"…and he was on the verge of yet another Casanova-ish conquest…"

"Casanova-ish?"

"…when the next thing he knew," Logan continued, ignoring Rory, "He's being shaken awake by a hairy Mediterranean in the fading 5 o'clock afternoon sunlight. His wallet was gone, his venti cold and unpaid for. He would have started singing 'Leaving On A Jet Plane' for spare change, had he not discovered he still had his cell phone and a certain Rory Gilmore on speed-dial."

"_I'm_ on Finn's speed-dial?"

"Nothing romantic in that, I assure you. With me gone, I guess you're the next best thing when he needs someone to save him from himself!" Logan laughed.

"But God," Rory uttered, her eyes widening as Logan's story progressed. "Now I can't seem to shake the image of Finn in his underwear warbling 'Leaving On A Jet Plane', thanks a lot."

Then with remorse, she added, "I didn't realize these things really do happen, that there are such…_bad_ people out there. Poor Finn. He did sound shaken over the phone. I'm sorry I felt so annoyed with him earlier…"

Logan felt a brief pang of guilt. "Oh, I'm sure he's fine. He's gotten himself into worse scrapes, believe me."

"Oh, I believe you," Rory replied, looking pointedly at Logan and his cane.

Rory and Logan slowed as they neared G-23. A small crowd had gathered some distance away, and they seemed to be looking at something—or someone—splayed out on the floor. Rory and Logan looked at each other, then quickened their steps. _Finn!_

Sure enough, Finn was inexplicably spread-eagled on the floor, his eyes staring blankly up at the ceiling, as if he had been drugged and gone on to nirvana. A black portfolio lay beside his head.

"Finn?" Rory said tentatively, moving forward in the crowd to kneel beside him.

Just then, a man strode up through the crowd, wearing a ridiculous Hercule Poirot moustache and a neon-orange airport security vest. He was pulling—or rather, being pulled by—a dog. A ferocious-looking but… tiny dog. A miniature pinscher? It started yapping at Rory's ankles.

"Excuse me, miss, move away, move away!" Rory and the crowd obediently parted, as if mesmerized. "We live in dangerous times, dangerous times! These are times of terror! How often have we warned hapless travelers not to accept substances or packages from strangers? Here lying before us is yet another innocent victim. Let him be a warning!" The dog continued to yap.

Rory was as wide-eyed as the other spectators. "What's wrong with Finn?" she whispered. Slowly, she became aware of Logan shaking beside her in silent mirth. He had tears in his eyes. Rory narrowed her eyes suspiciously and stared at the airport security man. Of course. _Colin!_

All she could do was shake her head and cover her mouth with her hands. Oooh the…craziness of it all! The dog started sniffing around Finn's crotch, and many of those in the crowd started to laugh, catching on that a skit was being dramatized before them.

Colin bent down over Finn beside the dog, sniffing the air. Colin pulled on rubber gloves and opened Finn's zipper with obvious disdain, curling his lip in distaste. "I knew it!" he breathed dramatically. "Women's lingerie! Contraband!"

Rory gasped at the sight of red lace peeking out of Finn's pants. "Logan, stop them!" she urged, grabbing Logan's arm and pushing him forward.

"No need, Ace," Logan said loudly, looking above her head, "looks like the real authorities are here!"

Sure enough, a small group of guards came half-running through the corridor, hand-held radios in hand and firearms ominously strapped to their belts. "Oh my God! Colin, Finn!" Rory shouted, not sure whether to tell them to stay or run for their lives.

Colin and Finn decided on the latter course. Shoving his underwear back in his pants, Finn picked up the black portfolio beside him and thrust it at Rory. Rory had no choice but to catch it in her arms, reciting a mental prayer as she did that whatever it contained, it wasn't illegal. Or a bomb.

Colin and Finn then kissed her soundly—Colin on her cheek and Finn, cheekily, on her mouth. "Have a great summer," they said breathlessly, laughing, as they ran down the hall, the airport security men hot at their heels. "In omnia paratus!" echoed from the distance, the tiny dog barking after them.

The crowd dissipated, and Rory became aware of a woman's voice booming over the loudspeaker.

_Attention, all passengers bound for Bangkok on Singapore Airlines flight SQ76, boarding is now in progress at gate G-23. Attention, all passengers bound for Bangkok on Singapore Airlines flight SQ76, boarding is now in progress at gate G-23._

Surreal.

"What are we doing here, Logan?" Rory asked him plaintively, confusion apparent in her voice. "What was that stupid stunt all about? NO—" she put out an arm to stop Logan from getting near her.

"Rory, if you would just—"

"My day has been awful, just awful and weird, you know?" Rory began to pace back and forth, still clutching the black envelope against her chest. "This morning, I woke up, and you left for the airport, Logan, you left!...and I wallowed and cried 'cause I wanted you to stay even though you probably have to go and I have not even wallowed long enough before hello, you're here again! I don't know how or why or until when…but fine! Happy, overjoyed, sure of course! And in between I just got it in my head that I wanted to see Mitchum…of course I had to see Mitchum about his son who at that time—I thought—had already left for London! And you know what he said? He said, 'have a great summer!' Great, like he knew something I didn't, and Colin and Finn—they said it too, 'have a great summer'? What am I, stupid? Can someone please let me in on the funny little secret? Because I am tired, so tired, and all I want to do now is crawl in a bed with a pint of Phish food, and go to sleep!" Rory looked at Logan, out of breath and not a little wild-eyed. She was so freaked.

Logan approached Rory cautiously. "Rory, I'm so sorry," he said contritely, pulling her into his arms. "Call me a butt-faced miscreant. It _has_ been a weird day. For _both_ of us…"

_Final call for all passengers bound for Bangkok on Singapore Airlines flight SQ76, please proceed now to gate G-23. This is your final call._

"I promised you that we would talk, that we will have time. Unfortunately, that time is not now. But in a few minutes, we'll have about 10 hours to talk all you want about all this and my future, our future. But now, please just trust me and open the envelope that Finn gave you." Logan pleaded, placing her hand on the flap.

Rory looked at Logan for a few moments, then sighed tiredly. "Fine. Whatever."

Rory opened the portfolio and took out a sheaf of documents. Her red, blue, and yellow folders of the notes she had painstakingly researched and collated for their once-planned trip to Asia. She looked up at Logan, who was trying hard to look serious, but couldn't. He was practically beaming like an 8 year-old.

She sat down on the closest seat, and took out a few more things. A couple of E-tickets. Her passport. (Hers? She stared at the broad forehead and rounded face of her 18 year-old passport photo.) A printed itinerary detailing a trip to Bangkok, through to Hanoi, Beijing…and places in between. Rory suddenly felt dizzy. Logan, meanwhile, just sat quietly beside her, happy to let her digest his surprise.

"Excuse me, miss? Mister?" A flight attendant came up to them, dressed in a sleek but colorful batik outfit, her hair pulled back tight in a bun, her hazel eyes warm and smiling. "We are waiting for our last two passengers to board our plane. Are you by any chance…" she consulted a list in her hand. "Ms. Rory Gilmore and Mr. Logan Huntzberger?"

She was beautiful. And what a lovely accent. "Yes, we are," Rory answered.

"Are you coming?" she asked. "We can wait about two more minutes before we close the doors," she said discreetly, stepping back to her counter.

"Logan…I…I have no words," Rory whispered, putting her hand to his cheek and kissing him softly. "Oh wait—I do," Rory continued, and Logan winced inwardly, preparing himself for an onslaught of miscreant-type expletives.

"Thank you. I love you."

With that, Logan kissed her forehead and smiled into her eyes. "Let's go," he said.

"A 10-hour flight, huh?"

Logan nodded.

"First class?"

"Uh…not quite. I'm on a bit of a tight leash now—and yes, I will explain. Business class, though," he followed.

"Mom?"

"She knows and says to bid you, 'sayonara'."

"And did I, by any chance, pack any stuff? A toothbrush?"

"Yup. All was in Finn's able hands," Logan chuckled, as Rory rolled her eyes.

"Then let's go," Rory replied, pulling him up with her.


	10. Wanderlust

10. Wanderlust

He had taken a year off from Yale to "sail around the world", Doyle had told her, not without a hint of derision in his voice.

Now she understood why.

Logan was sitting towards the bow of their small boat—certainly not the Huntzberger yacht he was notorious for running adrift—more like a dinghy, a wood and bamboo contraption outfitted with a crank-and-pull motor so headsplittingly loud, but apparently seaworthy enough. He was in a faded t-shirt and denims cut-off above the knees, revealing forearms and legs that have been burnished to tan by weeks in the sun. His hair mussed naturally by the wind, he squinted and pointed towards a white strip of beach they were approaching at the horizon, chatting easily with their Thai boatman. He looked golden. And happy.

They called him "King of the Sloths", Colin and Finn did, because of his supposed penchant for idle pursuits. As they talked of their jaunts in Europe or some other exotic locale, she had imagined Logan lying in a hammock, dozing under coconut trees on an island in Fiji with a bottle of tequila in his hand, native women in grass skirts and coconut bras fawning over him (this part she imagined with great distaste). But that vision evaporated rapidly in the 100 degree heat and humidity of Vietnam and Thailand, where they had trekked, snorkeled, camped, spelunked, dove, haggled, walked, kayaked, shopped, island-hopped, hiked, swam, biked, (and had she mentioned spelunked?), for the last 4 weeks. His energy and curiosity were boundless and so infectious, she felt like she was transported to a travel show with Globetrekker Ian Wright. Frommer and her own well-researched notes were useless, amateur.

"_You ready, Ace?" he asked her, holding her hand. They were sitting on a wooden plank, their legs dangling in the water, floating—in what seemed to Rory—the middle of the Pacific. It was the jump-off point for one of 20 popular dive spots in the Similan Islands north of Phuket, Thailand._

_Staring at the deep blue of the water, Rory said, "Um, why don't I just watch you from up here? The…uh…water is so clear…look! I see a school of Nemos!" She clutched Logan's arm excitedly, pointing to a stream of orange flitting below their feet. _

"_We'd see them better if we were down there instead of up here. Heck, we might even see Bruce, now wouldn't that be a treat?"_

"_This is hardly the time to be cracking jokes about sharks, Logan," Rory whined. "As it is I can't keep 'dum-dum-dum-dum-dum-dum' out of my head," she said, chanting the Jaws theme. "I don't think I can go through with this after all... I'm sorry for being a wimp, but I'm feeling kind of sick."_

"_The reason you're feeling sick is because we've been sitting here on a bobbing plank for the last 10 minutes. Motion sickness, Ace. You'll feel better when we've gone down. Now trust me, I won't let anything happen to you." He rubbed her knuckles, which had turned white from squeezing his hand. "And reef shark…" Logan shrugged, "ignore them. They're beautiful, and won't bite you unless you bite them first."_

"_Why am I doing this again?" Rory asked, the mention of sharks giving her an acid reflux._

"_Because over 70 of the earth is under water. It would be a nice change of scenery to see how that part of the world lives, don't you think?" Logan teased. "Rory, it is so… amazing down there. I have no words," he added seriously. "You just have to see for yourself. But if you're really not ready, then we won't go in. We can just snorkel closer to the beach, okay? People take months-long diving courses, and you've only had a two-hour one."_

"_And you've never had any," Rory pointed out._

"_Yeah, but that's just me. And Sir Richard Branson, my idol," he quipped, referring to the wildly successful--or wild and successful--CEO of the Virgin group of companies. _

_He was aching to just dive in, she saw, watching him look at the water. How much worse can it be than jumping off a seven-story scaffold? All in keeping with the "one less minute you haven't lived" theme. If she was going to die, then there's no better place than in Phuket, on a dive spot whimsically named Christmas Point, surrounded by sea turtles, and holding Logan's hand. She pulled down her goggles and readied her breathing apparatus. Logan squeezed her hand in reassurance, and they went under._

He was right, of course. Basking in the soft glow of the sun 50 feet under water; looking into crevices of live corals and seeing schools of blue, silver, orange, red, yellow fish ranging in size from the length of her finger to half of her body…was other-worldly. (_Finding Nemo_, despite being her hands-down favorite animated movie, didn't hold a candle to the real thing, she had argued to her mother.) She had never felt so small and sheltered, so insignificant a member of the planet, as she did looking up at a manta ray gliding gracefully above her. Turning beside her, Logan charaded dramatically with his hands for her not to cry, or she'll lose her breath and drown. She pinched his arm menacingly under water, but then hugged him long and hard when they finally came up, in sheer gratefulness and wonder.

"That was…"

"Tuna," Logan replied, referring to the hefty, rotund fish staring lazily at Rory right before they surfaced.

"I thought they were small, like…the canned…" Rory shivered. "How stupid is that? And that's it. I'll never eat sushi again, not after having communed with tuna like this." She felt overwhelmed.

"I knew you'd like it, Ace," was all he murmured in her wet embrace, happy to have her experience it with him.

And so it went. Whether trekking up the scenic mountainside of Muong Hill, riding a bicycle in the crowded streets of Saigon, or eating a prawn in her soup, Logan prodded Rory to go further, be bolder. Asia, Rory thought, has definitely been all about exploring unchartered territory. She's already crammed 4 journals with notes and mementos to show for it, mailed out a dozen postcards to Stars Hollow, and they still have 2 weeks to go.

But travelling through Asia with Logan, has also been about exploring the uncharted territory that _is_ Logan.

She watched him now behind her sunglasses, as their boat approached the beach; a picnic lunch, nap, kayaking around limestone caves, and more napping were the order of the day. He was laughing at some joke their boatman had cracked. She had to smile herself. _How can he even understand his broken English, let alone 'get' the punch line?_ She had witnessed Logan charm the upper-crustdom of Connecticut and New York. He cut an impressive figure in his Brooks Brothers button-downs and khakis. He can converse easily with his father's colleagues, and more than hold his own with the Parises, Doyles, Juliets, and Colins of Yale. Love or hate his confidence-cum-cockiness, people were drawn to him.

It was even more extraordinary to see him outside of that world, out of his comfort zone…or was that world, in fact, _not_ his comfort zone, but 180 degrees away from where he'd rather be?

He had talked just as easily about the rainy weather with the toothless street vendor selling fried bananas, and cooed appreciatively at the 1 year-old baby at the hip of the young lady selling batik shirts at the Night Market. Ah, yes, still charming enough to get Rory an extra helping of banana, and a blue-green flowered batik shirt for Luke (which he'll probably only wear when he's dead and can't see himself), for several baht cheaper without her having to bat an eyelash. He gamely took photographs for and with the battallion of Muong tribe village children, who swarmed around him like he was some movie star.

He was the same Logan, but different. Like Asia having the same sea and sky as North America, but different. He began walking without a cane days after their arrival (claiming the healing powers of the green tea he was chugging like water), and had managed to piggy-back Rory through a torturous trek when an unknown insect bit her toe and it swelled painfully. He laughed easier, drank less. He seemed… carefree but without airs, more genuine with people. Rory could not sense the "staged" show of interest or cad-act that Logan sometimes put on when interacting with his elders or peers in the States—with even Colin and Finn.

Once, she couldn't resist ribbing him about the wardrobe he had packed, watching him throw on a t-shirt, jeans, and flip-flops after their shower.

"_You'll lose your 5-million Ralph Lauren contract, you know, not to mention your 10 frequent-shopper discount at Saks. And Carson Pressley…sad, but he would just leave you at the wayside for another man."_

_He looked at her, lying in bed all rosy and freckled from the sun, wearing just a tank top, cut-offs, and slippers. "I'd say we're a pretty matched set, Ace."_

"_But these are my clothes. Those aren't yours, Logan, I've never seen them before. Oh God, you wouldn't happen to have flannel stashed away in your luggage or closet at home, would you?" she mocked him, widening her eyes._

"_Flannel in this heat? Nah," he replied. "You've never seen this stuff?" he asked, pointing to his faded jeans. "I've had them forever. They've been stored in a box labeled 'For secret trip to Asia' under the bed. Together with your pajamas."_

"_Is that what they're calling those lacy teenie scraps of cloth that Finn packed for me? Pajamas?" Rory drawled. "Anyway, I'm not complaining."_

"_Neither am I," Logan murmured suggestively, flopping on the bed beside her and pulling her to his side._

"_I'm not talking about my pajamas, or the lack thereof," Rory sternly looked into his eyes. "I was talking about your clothes." She fingered the fraying collar of his Yale t-shirt. "I like this look on you, Logan," she smiled at him appreciatively, her hand caressing the hint of stubble on his face. "But whatever would Shira say?... Oh, Logan, that's hardly appropriate for company, dear, especially not for the Fallon girl" she said, channeling Shira._

_Logan shrugged, settling back and kicking off his flip-flops. "I don't care what others think. No one knows me here, Ace."_

_No one knows me here._ As far away from the United States and his family that he could ever be, he didn't need to be anyone but himself. And that's why he travelled, took off to sea. Why he needed to leave.

----------------------------------------------------

"Penny for your thoughts?...on second thought, make that a bucket of scallops and mussels for your thoughts," Logan shouted over the wind, shaking Rory from her reverie.

Despite her newfound love for sealife, shellfish was Rory's latest food fetish. There have been many new ones in the course of their trip, her initial complaints about missing the burgers and coffee at Luke's extinguished after discovering such culinary delights as spring rolls, spicy stews, and Vietnamese chicory-flavored coffee sweetened with condensed milk. (Lorelai, understandably, shuddered and ranted at her disloyalty, as Rory sang the praises of the strong and sweet stuff.) Rory was nothing if not an adventurous eater, something Logan was thankful for or she would have shrivelled of starvation. This was one among many reasons why he's never brought a girl with him in his travels. But Rory was a class unto herself.

"I was…nothing. Enjoying the view. It's breathtaking," she replied.

"I'd say. You've been staring at me for the last 15 minutes. The wind has been screaming through the holes at the back of my head."

"You're beautiful," she blurted out. "…aaand I can't believe I just said that. Must be the landscape. Very _Swept Away_—the Italian, not the Madonna version" she said, making light of her remark.

"Uh-huh, thanks. You're beautiful too." Logan moved carefully from the bow to sit beside Rory on the bamboo poles fitted along the sides of the boat as seats. He drops a kiss on her bare, slightly sunburned shoulder. "What's bringing on this bout of sentimentality?"

"Oh, I don't know…" Rory rubbed her stomach and looked away, feeling the remnants of sand scratching her skin. There was always sand. Between their toes and the pages of their books. Tucked in their navels. Scattered on their bed, their sheets smelling like sun and seawater and Hawaiian Tropic sunblock lotion.

"Maybe the heat. Maybe the idea that in a couple of weeks, we'll be back in the 'real world'…" She sighs. "I'm sorry for bringing that up, let's not talk about that," she smiled slightly and leaned her head against him. She fought back inexplicable tears. _Damn, she loved the smell of their sheets. _

Logan thought of something to say, but their boat had slowed and was now being pulled to shore by their guide. Logan kissed Rory's hair then jumped off the boat to the thigh-deep water, helping the boatman secure it on the beach. He helped Rory disembark, then watched her survey the island, no doubt choosing just the right rock or patch of sand, with just the right incline, with just the right view.

They've talked about the "real world". Every now and then, in between walking and eating, sleep and waking. They've never before had so much time to talk.

"_It's called 'reverse psychology' you know," Rory told him, as he rubbed chamomile lotion on the mosquito bites on her calves. "If you want someone to do something, then convince him to do the opposite."_

"_If that means playing mind games and messing with my brain, then that's Mitchum for you," Logan replied. "I still can't accept that he has nothing but good intentions up his sleeve." He was referring to Mitchum's suggestion that he take a job with Robert Stansfeld at Morning Cup Media._

"_When we spoke, he was pretty confident that you'll return to the fold eventually, the proverbial Prodigal Son. Like it didn't matter what you did in the meantime. He said you were like him, more than you realize." She paused, then couldn't help asking, "Are you?"_

_Logan absent-mindedly started to rub the sole of Rory's foot, his hands on auto-pilot. "I don't know. I'm not even sure I know myself, let alone my father. I guess I admire him, I admire his work…but—but I don't like him, Ace." _

_It was perhaps the first time he had voiced that feeling, and he unconsciously pressed harder than usual on Rory's heel. She winced at the pain, unbidden, in her foot. And the pain in Logan's voice. _

_He cleared his throat. "Anyway…I've been thinking a lot about it and I've figured my decisions don't have to have anything to do with him. It used to be that whenever I did what he wanted, I was being his lapdog…"_

"_And whenever you didn't do what he wanted, you were rebelling against him," Rory continued._

"_I just want to do things because I want to, because it's what I want for myself, not to please him or spite him," Logan continued with a frown on his brow. "If I end up working in our newspapers, I don't want it to be because I'm doing it for him. And if I don't end up there, I don't want it to be just because I hate him, either." _

"_You can't keep him from thinking what he wants to think though, Logan. Whatever you do, he'll probably take as his comeuppance or to his satisfaction."_

"_I'd rather not give him any satisfaction. But he can think whatever he wants. As long as I'm doing what I want…" Logan paused, as if uncertain. "I guess that sounds…pretty selfish, huh?"_

"_Selfish. You think you're the one being selfish? You've…been… brainwashed..." Rory sputtered, as Logan pressed into her foot, hard._

_Logan laughed wryly. "I'm 24, Rory. That's twenty-four years of being told that the only thing I can be is a newspaper man, and the only thing I can do is to take over the family business one day. I used to want to be a…fireman, or an astronaut, you know?"_

"_Figures. Ladders…jumping off the deep end of things and all that."_

_Logan ran his hand through his hair, rubbed his eyes. "When I was a kid, it was always like I should feel guilty for wanting those things. Then eventually I stopped wanting, stopped feeling, stopped thinking about it. Now here I am, all grown up and not knowing exactly what I want. And still feeling kinda guilty after all. Damn."_

_He finally looked down at Rory's foot, noticing the tinge of bluish-green appearing on top of the arch. "Did I do that?"_

"_I didn't want to interrupt you, but now I can finally say, 'Ow!' Remind me not to place any appendages near you when you're talking about Mitchum. I do want to have everything in place when I see my mother again, or its off with your head," Rory grumbled in exaggerated pain as Logan kissed the spot he had bruised on her foot._

"_So, hey," she said softly, when the frown dissipated from Logan's face. "When did you become so wise?"_

"_Must be the Buddha amulet," Logan teased, patting the back pocket of his pants where he placed one of the many charms Rory couldn't help buying at the half-dozen Wats—Buddhist temples—they've visited. "Could be wiser still."_

"_Well, your ass is as good a place as any to start getting enlightened," Rory said_

----------------------------------------------------

"So, I have a surprise for you," Logan announced, when the remains of their lunch had been packed away.

"Ooh, an announced surprise. New strategy I see. Okay, I've braced myself now. Colin or Finn dropping by from a coconut tree?" she said dryly. From her lying position, Rory rose up on her elbows, her nap postponed for the moment.

Logan was momentarily distracted at the sight of Rory in her shorts and bikini top, mussed and sleepy from the wind and their meal, the blue of the sea and sky deep in her eyes.

"What?"

"You've got sand in your hair."

"Hm, must mean we're at the beach, Sherlock."

Logan handed her a newspaper. _The New York Times_.

"Okaay…so you want me to swat the sand off my hair with a newspaper?" Rory asked.

As Logan pointedly looked at the paper and remained mute, Rory obligingly flipped through the pages. "Has the Third World War erupted? Have they sent out a search party for us? Are there new pictures of Shiloh Jolie-Pitt…?" Rory's voice died down as her eyes found what Logan meant for her to find.

Quiet ensued for a full 11 minutes, the waves lapping against the shore the only sound. His mind played back to his 10 year-old self, submitting his homework to his dad for inspection, his stomach in knots awaiting the inevitable frown and criticism.

"Logan. Oh my God," she whispered under her breath. "Oh my God. Logan. Logan Huntzberger." Rory rose to her feet flailing the newspaper in the air. "You have an opinion piece in _The New York Times_," she informed him needlessly, breathlessly.

"Really, Ace? Guess I must have written it."

"Entitled, 'Notes from the edge of the (flat) world: A Connecticut Yankee in Buddha's court'. By Logan Huntzberger."

"Hm. Sounds boring," he snorted.

"You're on the same spread as Maureen Dowd. _And_ Thomas Friedman."

"Strange bedfellows."

She knelt beside him on the sand. "And Logan, it's incredible. Insightful…thought-provoking…I would never have guessed you were thinking of the socio-politics of globalization, Third World labor and Asian culture while eating fishballs with Lee-Lai, our _tuktuk_ driver."

"Ladies and gentlemen, the blonde boy _does_ have a brain!" The knots in his stomach began to untangle. "And you are biased. Apart from the fact that you adore me, many of those ideas came from talking with you, Ace."

"You mean arguing with me."

"Yeah, we should argue more often. It might land me a permanent op-ed column."

"Could I give you a congratulatory kiss now? Or should I bow and grovel at your feet?"

"Kiss now. Worship later."

Rory came to him and kissed him hard, fervently. She knew how much it meant, Logan writing of his own volition, no fathers or editors at his back, even if he appeared flippant about it. Logan tried to stifle a groan as their kiss deepened, and Rory became keenly aware that Logan was shirtless. And hot. Either their bodies have absorbed the sun, or they were emitting their own heat.

"You know, a certain scene from _Swept Away_ does come to mind at the moment," Logan murmured against Rory's neck.

"And risk getting sand in places where the sun don't shine? I...don't…know, Logan…" She bit her lip as Logan started nuzzling down to her barely clad breasts.

Logan stopped abruptly and looked at Rory with a wicked smirk. "Okay, but will there be more where that came from if I show you another surprise?" He casually left her sitting on the sand and got more papers from his backpack.

"Not exactly on Oprah's list of 'Top Ten Summer Reads' but…" He drops _The Washington Post_, _The Daily Telegraph_, and six pages printed out from a blogsite for in front of Rory. Then he walks out to the water and dove in where the waves came up to his waist.

An hour later, Logan began nudging Rory with his foot, dripping water on her as he towelled off. "So…?"

Rory opened one eye to look up at him. "I'm not talking to you. I'm proud of you, I'm happy for you, and I love you. But I'm not talking to you."

"Aw, c'mon Ace. I know you're just dying to ask me…"

Rory sat up. "When on earth did you find the time to write those pieces? Three articles in four weeks, plus three blog entries? That's crazy! Have you been bitten by some exotic bug? Is there something truly miraculous in the green tea? And why did you never tell me?"

"So much for worship."

"Well?"

"You sleep like the dead, Ace," Logan shrugged and ducked, just in time to miss Rory's slipper whizzing past his head. "And you know I don't. Sleep as much. So…I found myself working on your laptop while you had your _siesta_ and your solid 8 hours. Second," he continued, "I didn't tell you until now because I didn't want to preempt or jinx anything. I was writing mainly for the heck of it, you know…it wasn't until a few days ago that I found out that those things got published myself."

Rory then recalled how she and Logan had sneaked into the lobby of a 5-star hotel a few days ago to steal a copy of the _International Herald Tribune_ and _USA Today_—on Rory's insistence, at that (as editor of _Yale Daily News_, she felt responsible for knowing what was going on the world). She had no idea he had gotten hold of any other newspapers. Heck, he probably charmed the bellboy. Rory had to smile.

"Poor Doyle."

"Doyle?"

"He's probably tossing and turning in his sleep, agonizing over the injustice of it all. Here we are, gallivanting around Asia, oh, and look, in between island hopping and riding elephants, Logan Huntzberger just gets this overwhelming urge to write something! Good thing the _Times_, the _Post_, and the _Telegraph_ picked them up!"

"I told you it was the Buddha amulet," Logan chuckled.

"So what's come over you?"

Logan began plucking fine, white sand from his forearms. "I don't know. How to explain…all this. I guess I'm just happy to be here." He stared out to sea with a smile of sheer contentment. "Happy to be with you. Happy to write…" He shook his head at the irony. "…and to know that some people think I _can_ write. At least I know I won't starve and fall back on your inheritance and the good graces of Lorelai."

Rory rolled her eyes. He's been living off his trust fund since the day he was supposed to leave but didn't leave for London. It was a sizeable trust fund of course, but she appreciated what Logan was trying to do in principle. Not asking Mitchum for anything more except what he was already entitled to as a son.

"God, this _has_ been a good day." Rory crawled to Logan on her hands and knees, and settled back against his chest. Her arms pleasantly achy from kayaking, their bodies sticky with sunblock and sweat. Tomorrow they were flying to Beijing. Two weeks. Then back to the real world.

"And I need a new moniker. 'Cause I think I'm calling _you_ 'Ace' from now on."

------------------------------------------------

**A/N: Thanks everyone who has read and reviewed my fic! This was an especially challenging chapter for me to write—so I would appreciate your thoughts on it  There's just a few more chapters left over to tie up loose ends, and I hope you all hang on for that. Later!**


	11. The Huntzberger Shanghai II

11. The Huntzberger Shanghai II

Rory had been staring at her computer screen for the last 15 minutes, touching the keys only when her screensaver started to appear. Her eyes were becoming sore and dry from the glare of the screen. Taking a break, she blinks several times and looks to the distance, at the chest of drawers in front of their bed. Several posters and pictures adorned the wall above it: a black-and-white print of Sterling Memorial Library in winter (only _she_ would have a poster of a library on her wall, Logan had teased); a landscape photograph of the Great Wall of China, Rory and Logan miniscule, perched as if at the edge of the world. Sixteen year-old Rory, fresh, with Lorelai. On the dresser, a collection of wine and scotch decanters, some holding white sand, others, seashells in various hues and curlicues. Buddha. Fat, cheeky, and smiling benevolently, one of an odd assortment (white, pink, green) scattered around the room. Remnants of a treasured trip taken 5 months past.

And the invitation. Cream-colored, with pale red poinsettias embossed along the edges. It stared at her from its place on the dresser, propped up against a framed close-up of a laughing Logan taken by Rory on his graduation.

_Mitchum and Shira Huntzberger request the pleasure of your company at dinner on Sunday, the 10th of December 2006, at 6:30 in the evening._

It was nagging her. Plucking at something inside her.

Rory rubbed her eyes and sighed, loudly enough for the blonde head beside her to stir.

"Wartandowinaky…"

"Shh, sorry, did I wake you? Is my light too bright?" Rory whispered, adjusting her bedside lamp so that it tilted farther away from them.

"What are you doing up?" Logan mumbled, opening one eye to squint at Rory sitting up in bed, rumpled in his sweatshirt, laptop and notes spread out around her legs. "And wearing my clothes…?" Logan reached an arm out and sneakily put a hand under her top to rub her tummy.

Rory pressed his hand to her stomach, stalling it before it went any further up or down. "My Pol Sci senior essay, Logan, as always. My second draft is due on my adviser's desk at 8 on Monday. And clothes are a necessity on winter evenings; I couldn't very well think intelligent thoughts while freezing in my birthday suit."

"Oh, I don't know about that…" Logan yawned, stretching his lean arms above his head as if to push away sleep. He then reached out over his side of the bed, got his Powerbook from its backpack. Flipping it open and on, he gave Rory a wink then turned to his screen, a concentrated frown replacing his drowsy smile as he propped up the pillows behind his back. He was of course, in his birthday suit, their sheets coming up to his navel.

As always, Rory marvelled at Logan's ability to shift gears so rapidly, moving easily from one activity to the next—in this case, from _sex to sleep to work_. Which was the rhythm they had established since Logan took his post at _The New York Times_ 5 months ago and could only go home to New Haven two or three days a week.

Sex first, inevitably. Whether at their apartment, Grand Central in New York, or the hallowed halls of Yale, coming together after days apart was electric; their mouths, hands, full of anticipation, full of missing and searching. Looking at Logan from the corner of her eye, Rory felt herself blushing involuntarily as she considered her bedhead, bare-chested boyfriend, tapping away at his laptop. He had practically thrown her on the bed earlier this evening with barely a 'honey-I'm-home', divesting them of clothing to burrow in the warmth of their sheets and her body.

They would catch up with each other's week in the interlude between sex and sleep, swapping stories about colleagues and classmates; professors and assignments; Lorelai, Paris, Finn; the weather; movies they needed to watch. Stories they had already told each other over phone and e-mail, but demanded personal re-telling. Then the sheer relief and release of being together in the same space would send them to sleep, deeper than in any night they were apart.

Predictably, though, sleep would be jarred by the cellphone, her senior's essay, or his article's deadline. Reminding them that life and the world rushes on, despite their wish for it to stay still long enough to be together another hour, another day. Rory loved seeing Logan at work, though; it was a facet of his that was novel (Logan of course protesting at the insinuation that he never worked in college). Its as if something dormant was awakened in Asia. It began with the six feature/opinion articles he wrote on the impact of globalization through the eyes of people they had met: their _tuktuk_ driver, a Muong Hill tribe family, a silk vendor in the shopping mecca that is Taiwan. They now refer to these as his "Asia series"; it was his key to a dozen job offers that met them on their return to New Haven. It was still new, Logan throwing himself with—dare she call it _passion_?--at his writing. Like how he was at that very moment, tapping at his keyboard at 2 in the morning.

"Mo-om, she's doing it again!" Logan said in sing-song, as he perused his notes.

"What?"

"She's staring at me!" He turned to her, amused. "I've sacrificed my sleep to keep you company, Ace, but I believe I've written…" he leans over to peek at her screen. "…at least 2,000 more words than you in the last 10 minutes."

"Yeah, well I'm distracted."

"Really..? All you have to do is ask, you know, and I'll purge you of this distraction, make your creative juices flow…" Logan murmured, pulling her to him.

"Promise?" Rory asked, as she let herself be entangled in his limbs.

"Mm-hm," Logan replied against her neck as his hands crept under and up her sweater. "Study break."

"Okay then. It's Mitchum. And Shira."

Logan stopped abruptly and looked down at Rory's earnest face. "You seriously did not bring up Mitchum and Shira just now. That's kind of a low blow to my prowess, Ace."

"They sent you another invitation. The third in the last three months."

Without a word, Logan extricated himself from Rory, his laptop, their sheets. He walked to the dresser to get a shirt and a pair of boxers, shrugging them on as he padded to the kitchen. Sighing, Rory followed him, the shock of cool air on her bare legs slapping her fully awake. As Logan got their coffee maker running, she popped her Pop Tarts and set out his bagels for toasting.

"So, what's the occasion this time? Dad buying himself another paper? Mom acquiring a new set of silverware?" He bit into his bagel quite savagely.

"The first time was to announce Honor's pregnancy…"

"Which we already knew, and congratulated her on. We had lunch with her and Josh the week before."

"The second was for Thanksgiving…"

"…and man, was I _really_ thankful that I got to spend it with you and Lorelai at Stars Hollow rather than with them."

"And this time…huh, well, I'm not sure," Rory paused, a tart in mid-air. She slid off her stool and returned bearing the invitation, dropping it in front of Logan. "It doesn't say what for. Poinsettias though, pretty…pre-Christmas?"

Logan shrugged. "So we can exchange gifts through the mail."

Rory cleared her throat. She plucked up the nerve to say, "I think you should go."

"Huh. You think?" Logan raised an eyebrow at her. She finally said it. She's been wanting to, he knew, but always managed to keep from saying it outright.

"Just to get it over with, Logan. Just to tip the scales of this…strange stalemate that you're on with Mitchum. I don't even know why you never saw them again after our trip," Rory wondered aloud.

"There was no reason to. Mitchum was only ever interested in me for the company. And now that I'm not in his company, not working for him…what for?" He turned his back to her as he explained it the way he saw it, busying himself with getting orange juice from the refrigerator.

"Logan." It always pained her to hear of Logan talk about his relationship with his father. "These invitations obviously mean he is interested in you…maybe its an olive branch, you know? Not that he needs to extend you one. If I remember correctly, he did give you an out on that London thing. He let you go, Logan. He didn't even cut you off. And you said he wasn't even that angry…"

"Oh, please," Logan retorted. "He wasn't being benevolent, Rory. I was the one who insisted on not going; he couldn't make me—I'm not a child. I was the one who decided to take another job, earn a living, and shelve my trust fund for later. Mitchum is still Mitchum the selfish jackass. And lastly, my mother sent those invitations, not him." He stood up to leave.

"Okay, okay," Rory covered his hand with hers on the counter, rubbing his knuckles. "I'm sorry this is making you upset. But you're right, Logan. It was _you_. So why this refusal to see him? He doesn't have this hold on you any longer—okay, I get that. So then what better way to just show up and let him and Shira see that you're okay where you are now."

"Rory…" he ran his hand through his hair, becoming clearly frustrated.

"All I'm saying is that it's not going to stop, they won't fade away to the distance. You can't avoid them forever, especially Mitchum. Just get it over with, Logan."

Logan looked at Rory's guileless eyes for long minutes. _Thumper_, Lorelai calls her. His family was the one thing they still couldn't talk about without him getting upset. More than getting it "over with" with Mitchum, he wanted to settle the matter with Rory. Maybe it would make her happy to see him do this, maybe it would make her stop asking and worrying about it. She had enough to do as it is, with graduation a term away.

"Fine. I'll go. But you—you're coming with me."

He pushed the wide-eyed, feebly protesting Rory out of her stool and back to their bed, Pop Tart crumbs and all.

-------------------------------------------------------------

"Have I told you that you're beautiful?" Logan asked, kissing her palm.

_You know how people are dressed at their best at their funeral…_ Logan had joked. Rory was wearing a white dress with a fitted bodice and full knee-length skirt, shot through with silver thread. Around her neck was a single strand of Southsea pearls, the only thing Logan bought her in Asia that wasn't haggled from a street market. Logan was Heathcliff-brooding-handsome, wearing black from collar to toe.

"You've told me about ten times already, Logan. So I guess we can stop with the pleasantries, and you can buzz the door now, please? It's cold; my smile is now permanently frozen on my face."

"That's actually a good thing if you have to deal with my mother," he cracked, as Rory peeked through the stained glass of the front door. _It doesn't look any warmer inside_, she thought ruefully.

Footsteps approached from inside, and the door swung open, saving them from their standoff on who should ring the doorbell. No less than Shira Huntzberger welcomed them—welcomed Logan—with open arms and a wide smile that Rory could sense was actually genuine.

"Logan!" Shira beamed, embracing her son. Logan, usually generous in his embraces, patted his mother's back awkwardly.

"Hi Mom, how are you?"

"Logan," she breathed again, holding his shoulders and still staring at him.

Rory coughed discreetly behind Logan. "Um, good evening Shira. It's nice to see you." Logan immediately turned to her and placed his arm around her waist.

"Mom, Rory."

"Oh, of course. Rory. Rory!" She tilted her head and gifted Rory with a small smile. "Such a…_surprise_ to see you with my son…why, after all this time!"

Strike one. (Translation: I can't believe Logan has stuck with you!)

"But of course. If we don't see Logan…then I assume he must be with you, isn't that right? Why, it might have been even easier to get in touch with you!" she laughed at her own cryptic comment.

Strike two. (Translation: You've taken our son from us!)

"Anyway, this is wonderful, so wonderful," she continued, clapping her hands as she looked at them. "Rory, what a pretty dress. But you're looking quite…flushed?"

"I believe my melanin hasn't fully recovered from Asia," Rory explained, knowing her white dress set off the remaining vestiges of a tan, even in winter.

"Hmm. My skin is so sensitive, it would shrivel like a prune under the sun," Shira said in turn. "Just not used to...being exposed. I suppose it's in our genes. And what with skin cancer and all…good thing Honor knows to slather on the sunblock!"

Strike three. (Translation: You're of the brown-skinned lower-class gene pool—certainly not one of us! _Am I being too sensitive?_ Rory wondered. She had looked forward to a good meal, but now she felt like throwing up.)

"I don't know, Mom. My skin's none the worse for wear," Logan interjected.

"Oh, men and the outdoors," she breezed, waving a hand. "But you look tired, Logan. And thin. Doesn't he look thinner?" Shira put her hand to his cheek. "If that job in New York isn't wearing you down, it's having to travel back and forth from New York to New Haven."

Strike four. Definitely. No translation required.

"On the contrary. New Haven is what rejuvenates me, Mom," Logan replied. "And I haven't lost weight, I think I might have gained a couple. Rory feeds me. She _definitely_ feeds me." Rory furtively pinched his waist.

"Hmm." Shira continued to smile, as a prickly silence ensued for a few moments. "Well where are my manners? All this catching up in the foyer, for heaven's sake. Linda! Linda? Please get their coats! And can you tell Mr. Huntzberger that Logan is here!" Turning to them, she said "Your father is in his study, working _even_ on a Sunday evening…shall we proceed to dinner, then?"

Logan raised his eyebrows as he looked at Rory, with an expression that clearly said, _I told you so._ "Her back is turned, let's make a run for it!" he whispered.

Rory shook her head, muttering under her breath, "And miss the prized cow that was slaughtered for your homecoming? Never!" Tugging Logan's hand, she pulled him resolutely toward the dining room, after Shira. _Welcome to_ _the Huntzberger Shanghai, Part Two._


	12. Prodigal Son

12. Prodigal Son

_So he came. _

Mitchum could hear the muffled voices of Shira, Logan, and Rory through the door of his study. Absent-mindedly, his fingers rubbed against the newspapers splayed on the sidetable. _The Washinton Post, The Daily Telegraph, The New York Times_, circa May to July. There were more, a two-foot pile more of _The New York Times_ neatly arranged chronologically under the coffee table. He's never kept so many issues of a newspaper that he didn't even own, in his own house.

_He's a good read,_ he reasoned, when he caught himself reading the same articles twice, many times over. A good writer. _Damn he's a good writer!_ Mitchum would have been first in line to offer him a post at one of his papers. The only obstacle, of course, was that Logan was his son. And naturally, he would refuse.

_Or would he?_ Mitchum needed to know. His curiosity got the better of him. As had Logan. His son had thrown him for a loop, first by refusing to go to London, then traipsing off to Asia, writing that critical series of articles, then taking a job, an actual _job_ at the_ Times_. He had done nothing that Mitchum expected. He didn't get into any stupid scrapes, didn't ask for money, and he completely ignored the Robert Stansfeld connection at Morning Cup Enterprises. Mitchum's motives for telling Logan to work for Bob were simple: he wanted to make things easier for Logan. After all, what would Logan do with himself, make of himself, without him and the Huntzberger name?

But Logan flung his mistrust right back at his face and is making a name for himself. _He's not quite like me, after all._ Mitchum drank the last of his scotch as he pondered the irony of what he was about to do.

A knock. "Yes?"

"Mr. Huntzberger? Madam says it is time."

"Yes, I'm there."

---------------------------------------------------------------

"So…what's the occasion?" Logan finally asked, as the four of them tucked into their tiramisu.

_They had survived long enough to savor the incredible dessert, Praise Be,_ Rory thought. Strangely, the subject of Logan's work or Asia had not come up at all. Such an important epoch in Logan's life, and it was as if Mitchum and Shira have denied the very existence of the last 6 months. There was rather a lot of idle and meaningless chit-chat instead. She was ready to raise her arms in mock surrender and cry out, "Uncle!", when Shira brought up the "Fallon girl" for the second time that evening (and _who_ in God's name is the Fallon girl anyway?).

"_Logan, by the way, we're planning a lovely baby shower for Honor at Martha's Vineyard in the spring. Would you pencil that in your calendar? I know how busy you must be, the news 'man of the hour'…"_

"_Isn't Honor due in the summer, though?" Rory commented. _

"_Well, it's just so hot in the summer, and Honor at the height of her pregnancy would feel it 10 times worse. That poor Fallon girl had her wedding there last June, and she near fainted in the middle of her vows!"_

"_I remember that. Her dress was too tight and she was obviously pregnant, Shira; it wasn't the weather," Mitchum said._

"_Pregnant? Mitchum, wherever did you pick up these awful rumors?" Shira exclaimed._

"_Oh please, Shira. It's probably in the gossip column of the DAR newsletter. Her father told me, he was upset about it," Mitchum replied shortly._

"_Well I don't know what's to be upset about. Marrying into a good family and having children are important achievements for a woman, and certainly more fulfilling than any tiresome career. I'd wish that for Honor and for Logan's future wife. Wouldn't you say, Rory?"_

_Rory jabbed and speared the leaves on her salad plate with her fork._

"_Rory has accomplished so much at Yale. I'm really proud of her," Logan said, squeezing Rory's knee under the table._

"_Oh I'm sure, Emily talks about you all the time…so do tell, what have you been up to?"_

"_Well, it's nothing really. I'm graduating with a double major in Political Science and History in May…"_

"_With honors, and despite having missed a term" Logan chimed in._

"_And I'm about done with my term as editor of the Yale Daily News. I had to extend into my senior year because I came into the position in the middle of last year. I've applied for some internships, and I've received a couple of positive responses…"_

"_Why don't you run those internships by me, and I'll tell you what I think," Mitchum interrupted, catching Logan's glare._

"_Well, isn't that nice? Rory, I didn't realize you were so…determined. So bright," Shira said, witheringly._

_Rory smiled at Shira. "Yes, it should be a considerable improvement in your gene pool, wouldn't you say, Shira? That is, if Logan actually has the audacity to, you know…'knock me up'. He does have a rebellious streak in him," Rory blithely said. _

She might as well have dumped the contents of her soup bowl (cream of tomato and basil) on Shira's salon-dyed-and-styled head. Logan sputtered into his water glass, and Mitchum could hardly disguise the rumble of laughter that was coming up from his chest. Shira looked at him, and he coughed instead.

_Thank God she had Emily Gilmore's blood running through her veins._ Shira's comeuppance set the tone for the rest of their meal, which continued in relative calm and civility.

"Actually, I do have my reasons for inviting you here, Logan," Mitchum started, picking up Logan's question as to the occasion for their dinner.

"Wouldn't expect anything less than an ulterior motive from you, dad."

It was Rory's turn to squeeze Logan's knee under the table. Shira excused herself, and moments later, cigarette smoke wafted into the room.

"I've been keeping up with your work at the_ Times_, and I must say, you've impressed me."

"I'm glad to have fulfilled the reason for my being."

Mitchum ignored his comment and plowed on. "I've decided to offer you a position at Huntzberger Publishing, Logan. I want you on board. You're free to negotiate your terms, of course."

Logan stared into his coffee cup. Rory couldn't believe she didn't anticipate this. She knew that right now, more than anything, Logan wanted to be left alone by his father. This doesn't qualify as leaving Logan alone.

"Are you _asking_ or _telling_ me, dad? Oh, and did you just say I'm _free_ to negotiate with you?" Logan asked incredulously.

Mitchum took a deep breath. "I'm _asking_ you. I don't consider that you ever left, however. You asked for time, Logan, and I gave it to you. You used it well. But your current post is temporary…it's not enough, not for what you can do. And if you're wondering, needless to say, your position and pay will be higher than what you're currently getting as a reporter."

_Damn the man for being so crass._ "Do you think this is about money? I don't care about money. Do you think none of this—none of what I've been doing--is as important to me as your company?" Logan retorted. He stood up abruptly, and cups and saucers clattered. He left the room.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

"Logan."

Rory found Logan pacing back and forth in the foyer, running his hand through his hair. He stopped moving, gave her a brief, sidelong glance, then turned his back on her. The look in his eyes caught her off-guard. Was he angry? Frustrated? At Mitchum? At her?

"Logan, it was just a question. It was just an offer." Trying to appease him, her voice small.

"I knew this was going to happen, Rory. I knew this was going to come up. I knew it, and that's why I didn't want to come." He turned to face her.

"You couldn't keep avoiding him, Logan. If not now, it would have come up sometime. I'm not sorry we came."

"Well I am. I didn't want to have to deal with Mitchum, not now, maybe not ever," Logan bit out in a hushed and ominous tone. "Why do you have to try and fix everything, Rory? My family is not anything like the _Gilmores_. Just stay out of this. I've been dealing with his crap my whole life."

Rory's eyes stung at his words; her face felt hot. She didn't expect this reaction from him, and it scared her a little. Why was he so angry? She fought the urge to turn around and walk away, to just leave him at the mercy of Mitchum. Rather, she strode up to him and took his arm.

"Hey! Do not turn your anger on me, Logan, please. I'm not doing this out of some twisted sense of goodwill to bring you back into the good graces of your family. If anything, I'm being partly blamed for how you've 'abandoned' the company and turned your back on them! Were you there? Don't you see how she doesn't want me here? How she doesn't want me with you? So please, do not accuse me of 'fixing' your issues with Mitchum. I don't have any reason for being here other than you asking me."

Rory spun around and half-ran to the door, grabbing her coat along the way. "Rory," Logan called, trying to catch up with her. "Ror, wait." He took her in his arms, her back against his chest. "I'm sorry. God, I'm so sorry," Logan murmured, apologizing not just for his outburst, but for his mother's treatment of her.

Rory turned around in his arms and stared at the lapels of his jacket. "Since Asia, we've hardly talked about Mitchum. And at first I thought it was because you've finally let it go, like you told me in Bangkok. That all you needed was to know what you wanted and do it, regardless of what that meant for Mitchum or your family. But Logan, you haven't let it go."

Logan backed away a few steps, kept his hands in his pockets, as if to challenge her. "All these months, I've been okay, Rory. We've been okay. I'm completely…satisfied where I am right now."

"You _have_ been okay. Still, Logan. You buy and read Huntzberger-owned papers, every chance you get…"

"…out of habit," he interrupted lamely.

"…even if they all say the same thing. Even if you have to spend the extra $2 or walk the extra block to get a specific paper from a specific drugstore."

"I need the exercise."

"You need a reality check. You keep tabs on how HPG is doing, changes in staffing, new writers, how its faring in the stock market…"

"…'cause technically, I haven't removed my investment from there. I need to know what my name is worth," he reasoned cheekily.

"…and despite being in their payroll, you manage to mock and scoff your way down every name in the editorial and management staff box of _The New York Times_. "

"Well-deserved criticism, if you ask me. Though their reporters are brilliant, of course."

"Logan." Rory held his neck and forced him to look at her. "_You haven't let it go._ This is why I wanted you to come. You don't want to admit it, but you think about Huntzberger Publishing all the time. It's been a sitting elephant in the room, and its growing bigger. It's making you want to do things you don't want to accept that you want to do."

A long silence ensued, as Logan closed his eyes and dropped his forehead to hers. Rory could sense the battle being waged inside of him, and bided her time, letting her words sink in.

_What did he want?_ Hadn't he already answered that question 6 months ago? Seeing Mitchum tonight, his self-assuredness deflated and doubts began creeping in, as he felt the indescribable pull of the man and the company—the family "destiny"_ (damn, he hated that word!_)—that held sway over him his entire life.

Rory's words rang true. But his feelings towards his father—this tangled mass of anger, resentment, confusion, hurt, whatever it was that made his chest hurt and heart cold—ran deep and clouded his judgment. Mitchum was there, always _there_, pushing, relentless and critical, at his back. …_For my dad to be truly disappointed in you, _he had told Rory once, _your name would have to be Logan._ Whatever he did was not good enough, whoever he was…he wasn't enough. Maybe that's why Mitchum was _never_ really there, not when it mattered; not when he almost died jumping off a cliff even. It was easier to stop trying and caring about what Mitchum thought. But maybe he never did stop caring.

"I'm sorry," he finally said, quietly, shrugging his shoulders as if defeated.

"What for?"

"For taking the long-winded route and coming back to where I started. Guess I'm not a very good 'rebel' after all."

"Well, you _are_ a little too rich and clean-shaven to pull off a James Dean," Rory replied with a small smile. "Long-winded, but you had to do it. It's not been a waste at all."

"Wasn't it? I'm back, under his wing, or more accurately, under his thumb. He's probably gloating right now; toasting himself for the return of the prodigal son," he said with a sigh.

"It wasn't a waste, and you are _not_ back where you started," Rory insisted. "You've been miserable and—and angry, and a drunken wretch, about the 'pre-ordained-ness' of your life, for your entire life," Rory pointed out. "You're no longer there, you're in a different place now. You have a choice, Logan."

He rubbed the nape of his neck. "I think I should lie on the couch now, Anna Freud."

"Just look at yourself," Rory continued. "You're 24 and a reporter for _The New York Times_. Your Asia series has been reprinted in countless papers across the country and Asia, even Time International picked it up. That was you, _all you_, not Mitchum, not anyone. And I'm running out of accolades, so here, I'm just going to hand you your Pulitzer," she cajoled.

"Why, I'll take that Pulitzer, thank you," Logan finally cracked a smile. Then he shook his head. "But it wasn't all me, Ace. You take some of the credit…I can't imagine what I would have done this past year without you." He took her chin and dropped a kiss on her mouth.

"You're welcome," Rory replied. "But don't turn all mushy on me now, you're just trying to distract me and take me home sooner than we need to."

"Rats."

"Don't fight it, Logan. The decision is yours now, not Mitchum's." Rory put her face against Logan's and whispered against his cheek. "It's okay to want to be part of Huntzberger Publishing. It has your name. Maybe that's where you should be…"

"He's such a bully."

"He is. But this doesn't have to be about Mitchum. It's not him you're fighting; you're fighting yourself. Don't."

Logan held on to Rory, tightly. She read him so well, like one of the dog-eared novels piled up on her side of their bed.

"Uhm-uhm." A cough in the distance. Rory and Logan sprang apart and turned behind them. Mitchum.

"I'll just go and leave you two alone." Rory kissed Logan's cheek, then left the two Huntzbergers to themselves.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

"I was short-listed for a Pulitzer, you know," Mitchum began. Logan remained silent, looking at him from across the room. "But for all that, words were never my strong suit when it came to you."

"Then maybe you shouldn't talk anymore…let's not talk. I mean, don't bother, dad…" Logan shrugged as if to say, _it can't be helped._

"This time around, _you_ should be the one to hear me out." Mitchum put his hands in his pockets and approached Logan. "Look, I didn't mean for my offer to come across the way it did…"

"How do you think it came across?" Logan asked.

"That I'm negating or belittling all you've done for yourself in the last few months. That I'm assuming you'll come back to HPG." Mitchum began to pace, rubbing his nape. "The truth is, it seems I can no longer make any assumptions about you, Logan."

"Let me guess. You thought I would fail. That I would continue to…disappoint."

"I assumed you would need me. To straighten things out, to pull you up, lay out the safety net."

Logan stared at their family portrait hanging on the wall. "Maybe I never needed 'straightening out' or 'pulling up'. I didn't need you for all that."

"So I was wrong. I was surprised, pleasantly surprised by you. Your insistence not to go to London. Your writing, your ideas. You've cancelled your Black card. In the half-dozen media functions I've attended, your name invariably comes up." Mitchum became more passionate, as if he was talking to Logan about another person.

"You _have_ always told me I don't fulfill your expectations, dad. Just business as usual," Logan replied with some sarcasm.

Mitchum narrowed his eyes as he looked at his son, looking older than he last saw him, looking…calmer, more settled somehow, despite the stiff stance. Looking like he did when he himself was 24. But knowing he wasn't like him, not as he always thought. Mitchum finally said, "I guess I don't know you."

"No. You don't."

"But I'm damn _proud_ of you, Logan."

Logan looked down at the swirl of blue and gray on the marble floor, until it swam before his eyes.

"I suppose you don't need to hear that…"

_I do_, Logan thought to himself.

"…but I'm saying it anyway. I know that none of this, none of what you've achieved, has been for my benefit. But I'm still your father. And even if we're…this way, even if I don't know you, even if I have regrets, I can still feel pride in what my son is doing."

Logan felt pins at the back of his throat, and he coughed to clear it. "Pulitzer-worthy, those words."

"Logan—"

He looked up at his father. "Thanks for saying."

A pause. A heartbeat. Then Logan walked towards Mitchum and extended his hand. "So I've decided," Logan began, emphasizing the words_ I_ and _decided_, "that I want to work for Huntzberger Publishing."

Mitchum blew out a breath. _Relief_. He shook Logan's proferred hand. "I'm happy to hear that."

"I'll be in New York from Tuesday to Friday next week. You going to be at the New York office, then? I can meet you there to…uh, _negotiate_ with you on the terms of my contract," he said, without flinching. Already, he set the pace of their interaction.

"Fine. I'll have my secretary get in touch with you on the specific date and time."

"Okay." Logan looked at his father a few more moments, not quite feeling how he expected to feel about being part of Huntzberger Publishing again. He turned and started walking back to the dining room, where Rory had gone.

"Oh, and Logan—" Mitchum called, before turning back to his own study.

"What?"

"Thank Rory for me."


	13. Partings, Redux

13. Partings, redux

"Rory? Rory." Logan gently shook her.

"Uhrmph." Rory felt herself rising, floating up, being dragged against the current of the deep underbelly of sleep, like the diver she was in her dream of Phuket.

"I need to leave in a while. And you have to get up. Class." Logan kissed her still-closed eyelids.

"Five minutes," she whispered, barely audible, as Logan tenderly kissed the rest of her face. Morning gradually seeped into her consciousness. Her bedside clock ticking steadily near her ear. The aroma of coffee hanging over the bed. The undulation of the pillow under her cheek. The rustling of blankets and clothes, as Logan raised her arms above her head to remove her shirt, raised her hips to remove her pajamas. The soft of Logan's hair through her fingers.

Half-way between sleep and waking, Rory's body was especially responsive, her defenses absent. Logan worshipped her breasts with his mouth, his own body, cool from a shower, heating up rapidly against the warmth of Rory's.

Rory moaned involuntarily; she was lost in her own lucid dream, tingling and sensitized by the flickering of Logan's tongue as it trailed down her exposed skin. She let herself be opened as his hands, fingers, mouth found her, arching her back and clutching his head as tightness reverberated around her. Rory gasped for air when she finally broke through to the surface, roused at last. She was now fully awake.

"Good morning," Logan said, gruffly, as he flipped on his back and helped Rory above him. She sheathed him completely, moved on him slowly, like honey, her dark hair shielding them from the light of day. Logan held on to her hips and back as he spun deeper into his own vortex, sinking further into her. He shuddered with Rory as she came a second time, their moans and murmurs resonating loudly in the hush of morning.

"Aand…a cataclysmic morning to you, too," Rory whispered against Logan's cheek, feeling utterly sated and ready…for more sleep.

"Oh no, you don't…you don't get to sleep in on your last two weeks of classes," Logan said. _Nor in the morning of my departure, _he mentally added, tucking her under his arm and kissing her soundly. They stayed that way for a while, holding hands and kissing.

"So when will you be back?"

"Hm, I'm not sure…four weeks? Two months? I hear summer this year will be nicer in Europe, not as hot."

Rory jabbed him with her elbow. "Though I might take a sidetrip to Yale in two weeks," he quickly amended. "To witness a certain overachiever walking across the stage to receive her diploma. I was told once that these rituals were actually for the loved ones, so I guess I ought to be there…and to take pictures, of course."

"This nerd must be pretty special, huh? You've been shuttling back and forth the Atlantic the last 3 months just to visit her. Tormenting her for a week, disrupting her sleep with your jetlag, then flying off again into the sunset."

"What can I say? The sex is amazing. She's an overachiever in that department, too," he smiled at Rory. Then more seriously, "We're halfway, Rory. Just another three months and I'm back in New York. The London office will be up and running by then."

"I know. That gives me a little more time to look for a decent place. We won't fit in that hole you used to live in."

"Hey, I love that hole! That was a very life-defining hole for me. And you mean your books and the Buddhas won't fit. We, on the other hand, fit just fine."

"It's also three subway rides and two blocks away from my office, and unless you want me to skip the morning shower, be in an annoying mood all day, and overdose on caffeine, I'll probably always be late for my first real job."

"Rory without a shower, ranting, and in a caffeine frenzy, is my favorite Rory."

"Logan, speaking of showers and coffee…" Rory glanced at her clock.

"Okay, I'll be 'toddling along'," Logan said in a bad British accent. He slipped out of her arms to change in the bathroom. Rory remained in bed and listened to the running water, unconsciously twisting the diamond ring around her left finger. She stood up, dragging the blanket with her when Logan came out changed and strapping in his backpack. He came to the bed and they hugged each other tightly.

"Take care, okay? Have fun at your finals," Logan said, rubbing her back and giving her one last long kiss.

"Logan. I love you." She nuzzled his neck. "Call me when you get in?"

"Will do. I love you too, Ace."

Logan walked to the door and stepped out, but not before Rory said, "And hey–"

"I know–" It had been a running joke with them.

"Say hi to William and Harry for me."

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**A/N: Aand...THE END! I fervently hope that I've left you "satisfied" with the ending, as satisfying as it has been for me to write this fic. Thank you for your reviews and for reading til the very end...and please, tell me what you think of everything! cuppa joe :)  
**


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